


Within a Sea of Red

by Inane_Rational



Series: An Ocean Blue [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, M/M, Organized Crime, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:17:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 49,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inane_Rational/pseuds/Inane_Rational
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High-class prostitute, Merlin Emrys, becomes acquainted with Arthur Pendragon, heir to a massive crime empire lead by Uther Pendragon, consequently, also the owner of The Avalon, the brothel where Merlin resides. The more Merlin gets to know Arthur, the more he wonders about his family, and questions how far entrench into the crime world he could succumb, as he succumbs to his feelings for the Pendragon heir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Within a Sea of Red

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** itachitachi  
>  **Artist:** silver_falcon24  
>  **Art link:** [Art Masterpost](http://silver-falcon24.livejournal.com/148919.html)  
>  **Warnings:** Dark content, prostitution, minor character death, various sexual kinks (mentioned and described)

  


**PROLOGUE**

Merlin looks around the luxurious interior of the limousine, and he didn’t really get what was going on. It’s not to say he’s never been picked up by sixty-year old men before, but they never introduce themselves or politely invite them into the back of a limousine. Nor do they begin to drive the vehicle, rather than sit in the back with him. The privacy window at the front is currently down, but the back of the Gaius’s head didn’t provide the opportunity to gather hints. Merlin could work with the fact that Gaius isn’t deceiving him, yet he’s still having a hard time swallowing down that he was picked up by a chauffeur. 

While the name could have been a fake, he couldn’t imagine anyone giving out Gaius as their false identity. He’s met a lot of John’s, James, and men who didn’t give him any name to call them by. But the name, Gaius, seems almost too archaic for someone to introduce themselves as. 

“Where we going?” Merlin asks, trying to exhibit false bravery.

“Downtown, sir.” Gaius politely responds.

He almost scoffs at the ‘sir,’ sitting uncomfortably on the beige leather seat next to a brown paper bag that wafted with the smell of delicious food. He leans to the side, delicately prying the bag open as to not make too much noise and call attention. 

“What the hell is that?” Merlin mumbles to himself. The food is packaged in a ridiculous tinfoil swan that he’s sure would feel warm in his hands, and is the source of the aroma. His stomach aches with emptiness.

“It’s yours to eat,” Gaius says as he makes a turn at an intersection.

Merlin doesn’t notice the cars shift in movement, breaking into the swan with eagerness. There’s rice and chicken that is moist and juicy in his mouth. He chews through the carrots, long beans, and cauliflower. He can taste the different spices he’s never tasted before, that make it the most appetizing meal he’s ever had.

And yet, perhaps he was too eager, because Merlin feels his stomach rebel.

“Are you okay?” Gaius asks, viewing him from the rear mirror.

“I’m fine.”

“You shouldn’t eat your food too quickly. It can be upsetting for the body.”

“I’m okay,” Merlin insists.

“I’ll stop by at the chemist.”

Refusal surges up, but the fact that Gaius is kind enough to soothe away the nausea, stopping at the chemist and getting him something to calm his stomach, he simmers down. He lies back against the leather seat, rubbing his belly with small circular motions and swaying with the movement of the limo. Gaius asks about his nausea a few times, seeing if his stomach has settled down as he drives through downtown traffic.

“It’s fine,” he repeat every time, watching as they pass by tall steel and glass buildings, or listens to the heavy beat of music bursting from neon lit clubs, lines of people waiting to get inside. During the entire trip he isn’t nervous about the unusual situation anymore, more curious about the lone old driver picking him up and taking him to some unknown destination. No sexual advances were made, and he was even fed a good meal. His ailment is his own fault. 

Yet the sense of unease begins when the limo turns into the dark alleyway between a posh downtown bar and an office building. The streetlight fades the further the limo travels between the dark crevices of the buildings that raises to the sky, that’s as black as the dark corners in his rundown apartment—the candle flames barely come close to filling in all the cracks in the floor, the walls, and the empty bulb sockets that didn’t run with electricity. The only thing Merlin can see is what the headlights let him see, and it’s not much. 

“Where we going?” He asks, which doesn’t get a response.

He looks on steadily, checking that the doors were unlocked, and looking for the first sign to jump out of the car. Two fingers are already wrapped around the handle as the limo makes another turn, by-passing the other end of the alley and the safety of a world unbothered by a realm that lies underneath. The driver stops the limo, and a sudden pouring of light spreads into the alley. He missed seeing the steel door, scratched up and dirty, and appears to be almost thick like a vault. 

“I’ll only be a moment.” Gaius gets out of the limo, keys in the ignition, and exchanges words with the doorman, a man that is as skinny as Merlin, wearing a pressed uniform attire, and his hair slicked back with gel. The doorman gives a nervous look in his direction, as though he can see past the limo’s tinted windows. He scratches the back of his neck, shaking his head at the driver. 

Merlin continues to watch the strange exchange between them, the driver now close to begging, pulling cash from his wallet and waving it in front of the other’s face. Again, the doorman shakes his head back and forth in uncertainty. Merlin can tell the instant he gives into the driver’s pleas and turns back inside, leaving the door wide open. Merlin scoots himself to the front, near the privacy divider, and sees a hallway with black and grey marble floors, violet walls, and fancy food trays being carted away by a waiter. The driver works his way around the limo to the driver’s seat, pausing to look at Merlin once he opens the door. 

“Merlin, you can come out of the car,” he says, as he pulls the keys from the ignition, not waiting for Merlin’s reply and closes the door. Merlin looks through the vault-like entrance into the extravagant hallway, wondering what he should do, inching closer to the window, assessing the waiters and people in suits, walking up and down the hallway. It could have been a hotel; except they’ve driven to the middle of the business district and he couldn’t remember seeing any large signs proudly exclaiming a name or a cul-de-sac driveway. As he mauls over scenarios and possibilities, Merlin arrives at the thought that with the number of people walking about, if anything did happen to him, there’d be witnesses.

Merlin opens the limo door, allowing the cool night air to wrap around him, as well as the spicy scent that wafts out from the building’s open door.

“Merlin?” The driver inquires, standing at the threshold and beckoning him inside.

“What is this place?” He had the right to ask, but he wasn’t sure about receiving an answer.

The driver looks at him strangely before gently clasping his hands around one of his own, and warmly says, “Someplace safe.”

He’s about to question the drive more, but then he feels the old man’s hand open up a bit, and a sudden small weight drops onto his palm. The man’s eyes held a sadness that struck Merlin, and with the same warm tone, the old man simply claims, “It belonged to your mother.”

Merlin’s not sure what to think of the small little item that warms the palm of his hands.

  
**  
PART 1   
**   


How many years has it been since Gaius had brought him here? Before he had to worry about everything to keep himself alive: money for food and rent, staying away from danger, keeping far away from the eyes of the police. It had been a stroke of luck for Gaius to offer him the safety and comfort of The Avalon, which provided him with all the necessities he needs and more. In return, he is only required to stay in this room.

Cabin fever had set in fairly quickly in the beginning. Back then, Merlin had suddenly found himself stuck in an environment where the exit door locked automatically, the only people with keys being the servers and clients. The former bring him and the other workers three meals a day like clockwork, and the latter buy their time and talents. He's only allowed contact through the phone to talk with his other co-workers and, in the first year, the people who had trained him, but it hadn’t been enough and he'd taken it out upon the room. Merlin had been expecting to get thrown out. Instead, the former manager had quietly gotten his room refurbished and renewed, and had placidly told Merlin he would have to work off the debt he now owed. No matter how loud his rants, Merlin had received the same calm response every time, until he eventually got used to it. 

He talks with his co-workers now, sometimes gossiping about their clients or their techniques. He’s made friends with the new phone operator, who connects their lines and places their orders to the kitchen when a client requests food. Lately, Merlin's been using these connections to gather any information he can about Arthur Pendragon. 

The phone has been ringing consistently for the past hour, but looking at the clock as he exits the bathroom, Merlin knows he doesn’t have anything to be worried about. He dries himself with a towel and checks the suit he’s laid out on the bed. There’s still an hour before he has to be prim and proper for his new client’s arrival. He’s aware of who Arthur Pendragon is: son of Uther Pendragon, crime lord of the Camelot Syndicate and also proud business owner of the Avalon, an illustrious high-class brothel catering to the wealthy. But Merlin shouldn't be thinking about his client’s inheritance; according to the pestering of Cedric, the Avalon’s current manager, the only thing he should be focusing on is that his client is the owner’s son. Specifically, Cedric had told him to take _extra special care_ of Pendragon’s son, upon learning that the client had booked him for three whole days.

It’s a bit nerve wrecking, with the length of time that he's required to provide for a client’s every comfort and need being counted in days instead of the usual few hours, but he can’t complain. When he was first told about the booking, he'd wondered how he had caught the attention of the boss’s son. The Avalon does have catalogues, listing all of their ‘residences’ for potential clients to enjoy their time with. He’d seen them once, a couple of black leather-bound books, with two pages dedicated to describing each room’s resident, their preferences and talents, and also the room’s amenities. Yet the idea of Pendragon choosing him from the book is ridiculous. He can’t imagine a crime lord’s son choosing anything but the best, and while Merlin had gotten placement on the top floor, he knows the other top-floor residents are of a much higher caliber.

The more likely explanation for how he had attracted Pendragon’s attention would be from one of his Viewing Room sessions, perhaps one of the last two. There had been the Lace Room, where he'd ridden Pierre from two doors down for hours with rolling hips and flicks of tongues, and there had been the Velvet Room, where he'd been tied to the bed and gangbanged by some of the guys a few floors below. The usual affairs when they’re working to entice more clients under their name.

Over the weeks between the booking and Pendragon’s appointment, Merlin had tried to remember details from the two previous sessions. Each of the Avalon's five themed Viewing Rooms has a stage, split from the audience seating by a wall with a large window so their ‘performances’ on stage can be seen. He’s not supposed to, but Merlin always tries to sneak a glance at the front row when he performs. His reflection on the glass obscures the view, but he’s the curious sort.

He doesn’t know what Pendragon looks like, and he can’t recall anyone of the younger-age bracket showing him particular interest. He has some experience with men and women on the cusp of adulthood, eager to spend their money and ease their boredom. Merlin has serviced people of all ages and genders, members of the Camelot Syndicate as well as their rivals. 

The first time he had an appointment with a member of a rival Syndicate, neither he nor the other residents were aware of what had been happening. Merlin laughs at his naiveté as he puts on his clothes, thinking about the certainty from back then that he was going to die, wondering what he'd done wrong. Apparently enough employees had shared the sentiment that Cedric had needed to make a conference call soon after to ease all of their fears. The manager could have saved himself the trouble by simply informing them beforehand, but it couldn’t be helped that, upon the previous manager's retirement, the Avalon has fallen to the management of someone like Cedric, who doesn't even try to understand them.

Merlin looks with dissatisfaction into the full-length mirror, tugging at the sleeves of his suit. There is no information to be found about the younger Pendragon except for re-hashed rumours and stories about Uther, the crime kingpin, ruthless pictures that had been painted long before. Even when Merlin had lived on the streets, he'd heard grisly stories of small time gangs that had crossed a line into Camelot’s territory and earned punishment, like the moral warning of a folktale. It makes him nervous that he might come away from his three day session severely bruised, or worse. Arthur is his boss’s son—what can’t he do?

The phone by his bedside rings again, and this time Merlin picks up. Though he much prefers to talk to the Avalon’s sweetheart phone operator, Gwen, the manager’s weasely voice comes through instead.

“He’s on his way up,” Cedric says.

“Not a problem Cedric,” Merlin instantly cuts in, already expecting the manager’s reminders to treat his client like a god. It irks him. Merlin hasn’t caused any trouble since his first and only tantrum, but that incident is probably in his file along with the acquired debt he easily paid off within a year of working and the unusual way he was recruited. Merlin had gone through the years with his clients just fine, gaining a few returning patrons, but for some reason Cedric simply chose to watch him for trouble. 

Merlin takes a moment to consider causing problems for Cedric so the sniveling suck-up won’t have the chance to get in Pendragon’s good graces, but decides it would only leave him at a disadvantage. If Cedric got that promotion from Pendragon, he would probably leave, so Merlin opts to put on his usual well-behaved routine.

He takes position at the entrance, combing fingers through his unruly hair and checking that the room is dusted, composed, and looks as sinful as ever. The Avalon’s interior design is extravagant and outlandish, with the miniature chandeliers fixed to the ceilings. Various shades of red encompass his room, from the cherry wood front door to the darker shades of the carpet and walls . Complementing the red are the black doors of the bathroom and closet, and the startlingly rich ocean blue of his bed sheets. Everything seamlessly merges together to present the decadence that clients expect, with the exception of his bed, purposely made to attract attention and bring out the colour of his eyes. 

Merlin whips his head around, hearing the sound of a key in the door’s lock, and quickly fixes the lines of his suit. He plasters on his best sultry smile and intently waits for Pendragon to open the door, the nervousness of attending a new client thrumming through him, the stress of having to discover what they like and expect. Cedric’s constant reminders begin to press on his nerves, causing his heart to pound, but he refuses to show any anxiety.

The door opens with a grand gesture, revealing a handsome man wearing a business suit. It’s a strange thought but Merlin can’t help but think that despite his attire, Pendragon looks like a modern age warrior. The shape of his face and body are chiselled, like the stone statues of heroes from Greek myth. Under the hallway’s lighting, Pendragon’s hair probably isn't shining as it usually would beneath the sun, but Merlin can identify the strands’ wheat gold colour. His blue eyes appear a little cold and calculating, until he looks Merlin over with an appreciative gaze.

What first takes him off guard is the realization that Pendragon is only a few years older than him, but already holds a substantial amount of power, and will definitely hold more in the future. The second is how his suit forms to his body to show its strength, the slight bump in the jacket giving away the firearm beneath. The gun makes him falter for a moment, and Pendragon catches it. There’s no apology in his smile, despite the Avalon’s clear rules about weapons in the rooms. His client simply walks further into his residence with a cocky swagger, posturing, entitled. An inexplicable feeling of annoyance towards Pendragon threatens to rear its head, so Merlin soundlessly takes deep, calming breaths to tamp it down, and closes the door.

Upon realizing that he should have greeted his client when he first entered, Merlin turns around to correct his mistake. “Mr. Pendragon--,” he starts, immediately cut off by the mouth connecting to his, teeth scratching his lips. He hadn’t expected them to get right to it, and falters for a few seconds before remembering to kiss Arthur back with equal effort. 

“Merlin,” Pendragon says into his mouth, tapping a finger against his chest, and then grabs one of Merlin’s hands and presses it near his waistline. “Arthur,” Pendragon indicates to himself. 

He could care less if that’s how Pendragon wants to introduce himself, because his enthusiastic need to devour is infectious, and there’s nothing more dissatisfying than someone who can’t match your desires. So Merlin follows Pendragon’s lead.

 

For the next two days, Pendragon is aggressive, confident, and insatiable. Other than sex, they haven’t really interacted with each other in any way. Most clients like even the smallest amount of chatter, especially the regulars, probably because of the relief the Avalon and its residents provide with these short-term partnerships. There's a familiarity in knowing someone’s enjoyment, listening to their grievances, dining together—or whatever else a client deems an entertaining time. 

Pendragon’s view of a good time seems to solely be sex. It makes everything else Merlin’s used to a bit awkward. When they call for food, Pendragon sends Merlin to shower as he eats his meal, and Pendragon takes one of his own when Merlin comes back to eat. When they’re resting from exhaustive rounds of sex, Pendragon talks business on his phone, and Merlin finds his company is unwanted and has to struggle to find something to do. Never before in his time in the brothel could he have said he actually felt a bit used, and could only put it down to the Avalon softening the actuality of him being a prostitute. Merlin can at least comfort himself with the fact that he’s at least enjoying Pendragon’s wanton aggressiveness, though he doesn’t think his suit is repairable by any means, and neither are his bed sheets. 

By the third day, Merlin knows that his two day break after this session won’t be enough, and the likelihood of Cedric extending his cool-down time is dismal. As he catches his breath from another bout of sex, he traces his fingers along the newest rip in the sheets, and silently hopes his client leaves a considerable tip downstairs when he leaves. They’re not technically supposed to, but Cedric encourages it, mostly due to his cut in the share. 

 

The Pendragon heir looks content lying beside him, that cocky smirk never leaving his face. Merlin’s sure that his pleasure during their activities, not having needed to fake an orgasm or a shiver, only adds to Pendragon’s ego. In fact, if Merlin even tries his usual submissive routine, he gets tiresome insults thrown his way. Pendragon doesn’t even have to vocalize the remarks anymore, effortlessly conveying them with mere look or derisive snort. The annoying thing is that his client catches his performance _every_ time, which makes Merlin feel less than adequate at his job. 

Rolling over to straddle Pendragon, Merlin places adoring kisses from his jaw to his chest, discreetly checking the clock on the bedside table. There’s only ten hours left of Pendragon’s bought time and the second his client leaves the room, Merlin’s going to fall into a deep, blissful sleep. His muscles ache like they haven’t for some time, and the joints in his knees are starting to feel stiff. The rug burns don’t help.

Merlin looks at Pendragon’s turned away face and wonders why his client had come to him particularly. There’s an odd scrutiny on his face every time he pushes Merlin to the bed, like being dissected and examined. It’s a bit frightening but, regardless, Pendragon can’t have been too pleased with him these past few days, so Merlin probably won't have to see him again anyway.

“You hungry?” Merlin asks, seeing from the clock that it's nearing dinner hours.

“Starving,” Pendragon says, reaching for his lighter and pack of smokes.

“What would you like?”

Pendragon takes a moment to light up his cigarette, and takes a puff before answering. “You decide.”

“And if you don’t like it…” Merlin pouts.

Pendragon snorts at the expression, tearing down Merlin’s instinctual attempt to appear a docile bed partner. Turning away to hide his frown, Merlin crawls off Pendragon to lie stomach-down, grabbing the phone on the nightstand, and presses a single number for the operator.

“Hi, I'd like a Sole de Douvres Poêlée servie avec Beurre Blanc and a bottle of Château de Bel to be sent up to room 506,” Merlin says to Gwen.

“Not a problem Merlin. Do you need the bottle sent up first?” 

“That would be _lovely_.”

“It’ll be right up,” Gwen giggles out.

“Thank you.” He tries not to groan his appreciation.

“You're tired,” Arthur says, climbing on top of him, stretching across to place his lit cigarette in the glass tray.

He almost drops the phone, but catches himself and casually places it back as though nothing had happened. “It’s hard to keep up with you.” It’s another piece of habitual flattery that receives another snort. Merlin hopes his smile doesn’t appear as strained as it suddenly feels.

“And if I’m telling the truth,” he challenges, letting his irritation get the better of him. 

A warm breath skims the back of his neck, and then he gasps from the pinpricks of pain as Arthur softly bites into his skin. “Then I’m doing better than I thought.”

Arthur’s weight is suddenly gone as he heads off to the bathroom, and when the door closes, Merlin is surprised to feel his shoulders relax, unaware of how tense he'd become. He flops onto his back, staring at the red of the ceiling and the crystals from the small chandelier. He knew he shouldn’t be letting his client get the better of him. He doesn’t know how Pendragon can get beneath his skin so easily, causing him to break away from his usual role. He’s serviced his fair share of pompous clients, even before the Avalon. 

He gets up, muttering a mantra to ‘get it together’ as he pulls two robes from the dresser drawers for himself and Pendragon, before the server arrives with the wine. Walking around the room makes the ache in his arse more apparent, and he stifles a few groans, wishing he had a whole week off instead of two days. The cool feel of cotton and silk draped over his skin comforts him. He places the other robe on a hook situated beside the bathroom door, where he can hear piss streaming into the toilet. Until Pendragon finishes, Merlin has a moment's reprieve to tidy the mess they had made. One of his nightstand drawers had been roughly pulled out in Pendragon's hunt for the lubrication. All the contents inside are now strewn across the floor. 

Halfway through the clean-up, he hears the bathroom door opening at the same time as a knock on the front door. Merlin instantly heads to the entrance, knowing the wine has arrived, and leaves the rest of the mess for later. He smiles politely at the server, taking the glasses and the bottle of wine, snug inside a bucket of ice. He almost drops the items when he turns around and sees his client hunched down, placing the last of the condom and lubrication packages into the drawer. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Merlin says, as Pendragon slides the drawer back into place. He places the wine and glasses on the coffee table in the entertainment area, embarrassed. This doesn’t happen—a client cleaning a resident’s room.

Pendragon blinks blankly at him, looking as though he hadn't been sure of the action himself, before his swagger reasserts itself. “It’s the least I can do,” Pendragon says, standing and sauntering over, “especially after the mess I made.” An arm wraps around his waist, one hand going beneath Merlin’s short robe to breach two fingers into him.

Merlin gasps, not expecting the sudden sensation. The fingers spread, invading him easily. He hadn't got a chance to clean himself of the lube, and the only thing Merlin can do is hold onto Pendragon’s shoulder and let him play. It’s too soon for him to get it up again, but the intensity of the pleasure wrecks him. Merlin trembles violently, trapped in Pendragon’s arms as he tortures him.

“I like you like this,” Pendragon whispers, sounding like a cat that had just caught its next meal. 

Merlin’s not sure what he should say, or if he can even answer, before Pendragon finally releases him, leaving him empty to the echoes of pleasure. The sound of the wine bottle's cork distantly popping strengthens him to gather himself and do his job, fixing the ties of his robe and watching Pendragon sniff the cork of the wine, then pour two full glasses. Pendragon hasn’t even bothered with his robe’s ties, letting it hang freely open.

He drinks from his glass and extends Merlin’s out to him, which he graciously accepts, plastering on a smile. “Is it to your liking?” he asks.

“Expected nothing less,” Pendragon apathetically answers, before switching topics. “So, Merlin. That’s a real name?”

He tries to not let his eyebrows rise in surprise, since he’d been expecting Pendragon to reach for his phone and begin conducting business with the outside world. It excites him a bit to finally see some normality, and he responds with a flirtatious tease. “Would you believe me if I said yes?” 

Pendragon frowns at Merlin, dismissively answering, “Hard to say.” He reaches for his phone, leaning back on the couch to drink the wine, and completely ignores Merlin again.

In his mind, he’s wrenching his hair and crying out in frustration. The residents at the Avalon were required to learn techniques and etiquette in the art of pleasure and good company, but Merlin feels he can only complete half the equation with Pendragon. He can’t get a handle on what his client wants. If Pendragon wants to be dominated, then he’s chosen the wrong resident to entertain him.

The brush-off shouldn’t be so demeaning, but it offends his pride. He isn’t the top of the Avalon’s list, but with five steady clients and a reasonable stream of one-timers vying for his attention, Merlin knows he isn’t as hopeless as Pendragon makes him feel. What does his client want from him? 

He supposes it’s an error on his part. He considers briefly that the only information he has of Pendragon are rumours, which could possibly mean he's a first time client at the Avalon. Merlin takes a large drink of wine from his glass, looking at the Syndicate heir from the corner of his eye. Merlin had simply thought Cedric didn’t want him to screw up this appointment. 

And if he does disappoint, he’ll only have himself to blame. The first few minutes of a session are usually spent getting a handle on what the client wants, but Pendragon had jumped right in, skipping the introductions. Merlin had fallen back on his usual patterns, his attempts at providing pleasant company receiving only indiscrete eye-rolls and offending comments. He hadn't been able to keep his cool and think things through. In the end, if things go badly, Cedric will have no leverage for a promotion and Pendragon will go off to find someone more pleasing. The thought of the former edges a smile onto his lips, even if Cedric will make him pay for it somehow.

Merlin is so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t realize Pendragon is rustling through the pile of their folded clothes until the sounds become more agitated. Panic seizes his body, and he stays still like a deer caught in a predator's gaze. Closing his eyes, he lets the bitter taste of the wine soak his senses, and breathes to calm himself. He knows the exact moment Pendragon makes his discovery, those strong shoulders stiffening, and his hands go clammy with cold sweat.

“Where’d you hide my gun?”

Merlin hopes he isn’t shaking too much. “I’m sorry sir. As stated in the Avalon’s rules, guns are—”

  


“The gun,” Pendragon snarls.

It’s a moment of irrational stupidity that’s caused something like this to happen. The gun _is_ against the rules, but Merlin knows better than to act on that. It isn’t his place. The worst part about this situation is that Merlin knows it has nothing to do with Pendragon breaking the Avalon’s guidelines. He'd hidden it as soon as he had been able to when Pendragon first used the bathroom. He'd picked up his clothes to fold them. The gun invading his home had been right in his hands, and he'd had the sudden, undeniable urge to tuck it out of reach. 

There had been no thought to it. Merlin thinks his mind may have been entirely blank, but his hands had known what they were doing.

He tries now to state the rule again, this time looking directly at Pendragon, expecting to see his client’s hand outstretched to him, his eyes raging like a bull. Somehow, it’s more frightening to find Pendragon has his back to him, immobile as a statue. Merlin is afraid that Pendragon will turn around and show him the true meaning of his Syndicate entitlement. 

“The gun,” Pendragon repeats, enunciating each sound. 

Merlin puts down the glass and heads towards the bed, reaching beneath the mattress near the headboard to retrieve the gun. Pendragon’s already behind him to take it from his hands, looming threateningly in his space.

“I think you should leave.” Merlin usually does have the right to kick a client out if they get out of hand by the Avalon’s standards, but they both know that his suggestion has no meaning with a Pendragon.

“Are you going to spout about rules again?” Pendragon laughs, though somewhere in his throat it almost turns into a growl.

With nothing better to say Merlin responds with a clipped, “Yes.”

The sudden rough push onto the bed is impromptu--Arthur pins him and leans down to whisper, “But I still have a few hours left, don’t I.” 

A slow tug on one end of the robe’s tie slowly loosens it. Arthur turns to place the gun on the nightstand. Merlin stays still beneath him, watching Pendragon take his time, his heart beats wildly and thoughts throwing themselves into disarray. Again, they are both equally aware of each other, hunter and prey.

Underneath it all, anger begins to boil. Merlin can see that Pendragon is enjoying this, so he finds himself disregarding the ingrained rule not to smack clients across the face, hand swinging out in a severe lack of judgement and professionalism. Pendragon follows the motion of Merlin’s attack with ease, catching his hand and bringing it over his broad shoulders, then steadying Merlin against his chest in an parody of a hug. His fingers begin to skim down between Merlin's legs, and Merlin resents both the humiliation and the utter lack of control he has in this moment. 

What had he been thinking? Hiding the gun had been a mistake, and he still doesn’t know why he did it. The only way he can see to rectify the mess he’s made is by doing exactly what Pendragon wants, even though his mind is having trouble distinguishing left from right, even though the urge to fight against his client is _still_ present. 

Suddenly, they are flipped around, Pendragon lying back as he gets Merlin to straddle his waist. At some point, Pendragon’s rolled a condom down his dick, which juts out proudly with arousal.

“Come on,” his client taunts, holding Merlin’s hips and raising him to settle him down onto the turgid length.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Merlin growls, forcing himself not to gasp against the feeling of being filled.

“This is more like it.” Pendragon’s smile is tinted with wickedness.

Pendragon's mobile is ringing off to the side, but goes ignored as Merlin slowly rides him. The hips under him rise to meet his downward motions, and he does his best not to let any of the pleasure show on his face, withholding any gasps as Pendragon’s girth skims along a particular spot that makes his vision swirl. The muscles in his chest are ready to burst as the tries to keep his breathing calm and steady. But it’s a losing battle, and the frustration is beginning to etch on his face.

Merlin wants to punch that smile as it widens, but Pendragon’s holding his wrists together in a vice-like grip. His client’s other hand is tracing the lips of his mouth , rather than holding his hips, and Merlin reacts by clamping his teeth down onto the nearest finger. Not enough to do serious harm, but a fair bit harder than a playful bite.

“This is what I saw,” Pendragon says breathlessly to himself, looking to be in a state of ecstasy. 

Merlin tries to comprehend Pendragon’s words as his client’s hands begin tracing the contours of his face, traveling down past his jaw, browsing the light muscles in his shoulders, and down to his hips. With sudden strength, Pendragon pulls him up higher, so when gravity takes hold, the member is slammed much more deeply into him. It’s what finally breaks him, the feel the wiry hairs against his arse, making him shiver from the sensation. It tickles, but it makes a heat low inside him wind so much tighter. Pendragon continues to raise him and let go, until Merlin can’t deny how much he likes it, only then does Pendragon stop. 

He’s left panting while Pendragon’s hands climb back up his body, pressing down on his skin as though he’s memorizing the shape. Eventually, those fingers flow up to his throat, and in the next moment Merlin completely whites out, barely realizing his body is moving while his mind tries to catch up. When he does regain enough focus to follow his own actions, his hands are shaking badly, cold metal in his grip.

“Now you’re crossing a line.” Any trace of amusement is gone from Pendragon’s face, only leaving behind a cold, placid mask. The heir’s arousal has wilted, but he's still lying on the bed.

Merlin knows how wrong this is, pointing a gun at a client; it's screaming in his head along with a jumble of other thoughts and feelings he can’t discern. Why does he have the gun? He doesn’t feel safe holding it, but he also doesn’t want to drop his aim.

“I don’t…” Merlin whispers, uncertain how he should continue on.

“Drop the gun,” Pendragon slowly commands, holding himself up with one arm, not appearing the least bit worried. But Merlin isn’t fooled, and knows the rigidity in Pendragon’s body is like a predator readying his energy for the pounce, and it makes him even more anxious.

Pendragon’s phone starts ringing again, grabbing Merlin’s attention. The crime lord’s son uses the momentary distraction to smoothly lunge with a kick off the bed, and with a simple maneuver to get behind Merlin, twists his wrist so he’ll let go of the weapon. Pendragon easily blocks the reflexive jerk of the elbows and the kick of heels. It’s an easy feat for Pendragon to lift Merlin and throw him on the bed to immobilise him.

Predictably, Merlin struggles, feeling that every inhale of breath is strangling his throat, and it takes much too long to recognize the blue sheets he’s lying on, and the safety of his home in the Avalon.

“I’m sorry,” he can barely say, unable to catch his breath but still apologising over and over, even when Pendragon’s weight is no longer on him.

The distant patter of feet across the carpet tells him that his client is a safe distance away, and Merlin dares to take a peek, watching as Pendragon answers the mobile that’s been ringing constantly the last few minutes.

His client looks at the mobile, frowning at the number listened there before answering. “Pendragon,” he greets gruffly, a perfect businesslike acknowledgment. “When?”

Merlin stays where he is, but wonders if he should hide away as Pendragon becomes more agitated with whatever information he’s receiving.

“We’ll meet at the yard. No one moves until I get there.” The mobile is snapped shut, and Pendragon swiftly moves about with purpose. “Looks like I have to leave,” Pendragon says, without looking at him, deftly pulling on his suit to look presentable once again. He’s using his hands to smooth and flatten his hair, and he walks to Merlin with the same cocky swagger from when he waltzed in three days ago. Pendragon sits beside Merlin's prone body. It’s as though nothing had transpired.

He leans down, running a finger across Merlin's lips, slipping the tip inside as he whispers, “You should know you left the safety on.”

Merlin doesn’t do anything when Pendragon gets up and leaves. There’s a conversation at the entrance, someone else outside in the hall, and then the door closes with a sharp click. He takes a moment to lift himself up, wrung out by the events. At the front entrance the server's cart stands beside the door, two covered trays sitting on top. Food is the furthest thing from his mind. 

He attacked a client, and the worst part is that he doesn’t really get why. He doesn’t even want to know. The rip in his bedsheet runs beneath his thigh, and he has the greatest desire to take the fabric and widen the hole. Merlin flops onto his stomach, pressing his face into his pillows, with only one thing to say quietly to himself. 

“Fuck.”

 

“Merlin!” the Avalon’s manager cries out joyfully. 

The phone that had been cradled between his head and shoulders is dropped to the newly spread out bedsheets. On the other end of the line, Cedric continues on jovially, unaware that his employee isn’t listening. It’s been a few weeks since the disastrous appointment with Pendragon, and nothing had been done about the incident. After the first week, Merlin had realized that Pendragon hadn’t informed Cedric about Merlin threatening him with a gun. Merlin spends the following weeks trying to regain his normalcy, attempting to piece together exactly what had happened so he wouldn’t do it again. 

Merlin had believed that Pendragon’s silence had been a stroke of luck. But if Cedric is calling, exclaiming his name and acting chummy with him, as though they were best friends, then it probably hadn't been luck at all.

Merlin hurriedly picks up the phone, barely understanding the words the manager is rambling. “I’m sorry Cedric, you’ll have to repeat what you were saying. I accidentally dropped the phone.”

“Ah, well as long as you're not clumsy with him, I’ll let it slide, Merlin.” The buddy routine drops slightly as Cedric's attempt at authority slips in. “It’s seems you did very well with Arthur Pendragon. He’s scheduled another appointment in a few weeks’ time. Congratulations are in order.”

Merlin’s attention fades out. He wants to decline the job, but the choice isn’t his.

“--Keep this up and I’ll see about a few upgrades to your room.”

“Right,” is the only word Merlin can offer.

“You’re on the right track here! I’ll reserve some of the best wine for Pendragon’s appointment, and give you a menu to memorize for his stay.” 

Merlin can practically hear the flicking of paper bills going through his manager’s head, as well as the dreams of promotion upwards from a lowly brothel manager. “How long is the appointment?” he asks.

He can almost hear the frustration in Cedric’s breathing, but his manager persists with the jolly tone. “It's about a two and a half week stay.”

Merlin covers the mouthpiece of the phone so Cedric can’t hear him trying to steady his breathing. 

“Merlin, you are listening right?” Cedric snaps out, finally losing patience.

“That’s a long time,” he says on a thin breath. 

“Yes, longer than usual. I don’t know what you did during the last appointment, but don’t fuck this next one up.”

Cedric hangs up with a hard click, leaving Merlin with no further arguments, not that he could try. What should he do when Pendragon is staying in his room for two and a half weeks? The possibilities swirl in his mind. The Syndicate heir had seemed amused by Merlin before he'd left, but he can clearly remember the fury in Pendragon’s eyes, as though he had absolute control over where and when to fire it, like a weapon.

Despite the time he's had to think things over, Merlin hasn’t been able to understand his actions. He doesn’t think Pendragon had done anything no other client had, but with the way Merlin's memory blanks with an overwhelming feeling of terror, making his fingers twitch and lungs tight, he’s not sure. It had affected him, making it difficult at times to handle the other clients. Even his regulars had started giving him questioning stares. 

With it nearly certain that he'll lose one regular to his behaviour, he’s been making the effort to keep himself in check, leaving the memory locked down. But Pendragon in his presence again will make that challenging.

 

In the coming weeks, Merlin tries to sink himself into Cedric’s demands as his manager comes to investigate his room, nitpicking at anything he dislikes. Merlin does his best not to roll his eyes at Cedric, even getting snappy a few times. There are moments where he can see Cedric's hands itching to rise up and smack him, but he didn’t have that kind of power to be damaging the Syndicate’s assets, with or without the Pendragon’s upcoming appointment.

His enjoyment of Cedric’s ire is interrupted too soon as the date nears, until finally he finds himself standing by the front entrance, hearing the key scrape into the lock and watching Pendragon swing open the door. Seeing him again gives Merlin no doubt to whether his considerations of Pendragon as a feral warrior with a hardened composure had been illusions. The recollection of his client’s indifference and sexual drive hits him low in the gut, and he finds that he can’t bring himself to smile as he should.

They eye one another, assured the other will speak first. It’s only a moment before Pendragon says, “And here I thought you’d be a quivering mess.” Pendragon moves about the room as though he owns it, and Merlin supposes that right now he technically does. 

He twitches in annoyance, but he doesn’t bother to respond and moves to close the door, though he's uncomfortable putting his back to Pendragon. For the time being he’ll stick with one motto: if he doesn’t say anything he can’t do anything wrong. It’s not a good tactic, because eventually he’ll have to be a good host. Yet the motto of silence is the only policy he can take where he can be sure not to lose control of himself again. Still, he should do something. There are the usual training routines to fall back on, except there’s never a suitable temptation to hold Pendragon’s interest. In the end, he’s left with nothing.

The weight of a gaze has fallen on him, and Merlin notices that Pendragon has finished his circles around the room. He'd been taking note of the changes, not watching him, but now… He’s sure the hair on his arms rises in fear. 

An idea hits him, and he looks over to the wet bar Cedric had installed near the fish tank. The bar is an easy way in, so Merlin makes a beeline towards it. Yesterday, Cedric had arranged for the servers to come and fill it with various types of alcohol, which would be a nice addition with other clients willing to pay for the booze. Of course, the Pendragon heir would instead be getting exclusive access to a fully stocked bar. 

“Is there anything you'd like?” Merlin can hear Pendragon follow, close on his heels. He can imagine nails digging into the back of his neck, like stray dogs that try to bite as they chase you. 

Pendragon hums, eyeing the bar and its contents with interest. “Whisky,” he drawls, and casually lounges against the counter beside him.

Merlin quickly pours two glasses and extends one out to his client.

“Don’t you want to take something first?” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin can see that Pendragon has taken off his suit jacket, unconcernedly exposing his sidearm. Merlin can feel the mocking intention in the action.

“No,” he briskly says, attempting to keep his gaze away.

He almost jumps when Pendragon goes for his gun. Despite the slowness there’s something very smooth about the motions as he pulls it out, like muscle memory, frequently performed without needing the time to think. Completely instinctual.

“Here.” Pendragon’s teasing him. The gun, handled almost as if it's a part of him, is extended out to Merlin with the business end towards its owner. 

It’s as though he’s being dared to take the gun, trigger in easy reach. The teasing makes him nervous, further fueling his contempt for Pendragon. Something’s boiling over with a fire that’s been lit since Pendragon had first waltzed in less than two months ago. The heat of it burns him as it scorches its way out. 

“Go to hell.” Merlin’s sure his words are barely a whisper, but Pendragon would have heard it all the same.

“If I do have to go, want to keep me company?” Pendragon jokes, adding a wink as he places the gun on the bar.

Merlin tries not to look at it, but he can see the gun is oriented so that he can easily get a grasp on it, and he follows the only action he can think to do. 

Throwing the small amounts of whisky at Pendragon’s face won't do much good, but trying to smash away that mischievous smile with the glass itself would be considerably worse. Some of the whisky splashes back onto Merlin, and there’s a sliver of it still in the cup, but he has the satisfaction of seeing the liquid speckled on Pendragon's face. His client’s tongue peeks out to trail across his lower lip for the little bit of alcohol that’s there.

“You know I’m here for two and a half weeks, right?”

Despite the wording, Merlin can hear it isn’t a threat and it bothers him, because Pendragon should be upset. Normal clients would be furious and demand compensation for the insult, and there’s no way the Avalon _wouldn’t_ comply. 

Instead, Pendragon crowds Merlin against the bar so his back is pressing hard against the edge. He takes away the other glass of whiskey that Merlin is holding and downs it in a couple of gulps, seeming to enjoy the burn that settles in his throat. Merlin opts to not struggle, as though staying still will keep him from being noticed. When Pendragon puts the glass down, he leans forward to draw his wet lips over the curves of Merlin's face.

Merlin feels the fire inside of him flare up, mingling with the heat Pendragon’s body gives off. When their eyes connect, it seems as though they’re suddenly sharing thoughts, and it’s perturbing to see the similarities. Merlin sees Pendragon’s fascination with him and a simultaneous fear. There’s a mutual feeling between them, and neither does anything about it.

“Don’t worry. I won’t be here all the time,” Pendragon says, breaking the connection. 

Merlin doesn’t have the chance to respond as Pendragon’s arms wrap around him to blindly pour another cup of whiskey. He can hear some of it splash onto the bar. When Pendragon brings the drink to Merlin’s lips, he can feel the spill starting to wet the fabric at his back. He obeys his client’s silent command, drinking until the glass is tilted back at a normal angle, leaving less than half of the amber liquid left. Merlin coughs against the burn in his throat and works to not let it bother him. Pendragon smiles at him, pleased to see his unwillingness to back down, and presses his body against Merlin once again. 

“Just need a place to sorta hide out,” Pendragon whispers, unbuttoning Merlin’s dress shirt.

“Sorta hide out?” Merlin pulls back as much as he can to see if Pendragon is being serious about hiding out at a _brothel_ , apparently on a part-time basis. It doesn’t sound like he’s hiding out at all.

“Don’t worry about my business, it’s not going to affect you.”

Merlin slips out from Pendragon’s grasp, turning to ask him seriously, “You couldn’t find somewhere else to ‘hide out.’” He uses the air quotations in a rather churlish manner, which makes Pendragon laugh in genuine amusement.

“This is certainly more enjoyable than my last visit.” Pendragon grabs the open bottle and goes to sit on the leather sofa, near a new coffee table and the sleek business magazines Cedric thought to place there. He eases into the cushions, resting his feet on the table. Holding up two glasses, Pendragon tells him, “Come here,” still chuckling to himself.

“It’s wonderful that you find me so amusing,” Merlin says, not bothering to hide his discontent as he sits beside his client.

“You’re more enjoyable when you’re not acting like a whore.” 

Pendragon rolls his eyes, and Merlin wonders what he’s thinking about in particular. He hasn’t been called a whore in a long time. The term makes him feel lower than a dog, even though he can’t delude himself about his purpose at the Avalon. “What do you think you’re paying for?” he asks, picking up the glass of alcohol Pendragon pours for him.

“Beautiful men and women who will provide for my every fantasy and comfort for a few hours or even more. There’s more to it, but I stopped listening to your manager about halfway through.” Pendragon smiles at him. It doesn’t seem like anybody likes Cedric, from Pendragon's dig. “You’re a beautiful man, like Snow White.”

 _What the hell is he talking about?_ Merlin thinks as he looks at Pendragon, flabbergasted. “Snow White?” he asks, not appreciating the comparison. His ire only makes his client smile.

“But definitely not a princess,” Pendragon says, sounding pleased, and ignoring the strangeness of his own words.

“Good, because you’re obviously unfit to be a prince,” he says without thought, shocking himself for a brief second before realizing that he may be on the right track, because Pendragon doesn’t appear upset at all. If Merlin is honest with himself, he enjoyed spouting the remark, how he had rebelled without the fear of consequences. 

Pendragon is an arse, like a kid with more power than he understands, doing things like making ridiculous excuses to book an appointment. But Merlin’s thinks that maybe he doesn’t have to concede to Arthur's every whim. It would make the time they have to spend together more endurable. 

“You think being a heir to a large Syndicate doesn’t make me a prince?”

“I think your ego could be knocked a few notches down.”

Pendragon laughs with gusto. “I definitely like you like this.” He takes his feet off the table and lies down on the couch, giving Merlin a look of consideration while he rests his half-filled glass on his chest. “Had to watch you a few times before I saw that spunk.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen my spunk plenty of times.”

Another laugh from Pendragon, which wears away the roughness from his image. “Come here.”

“I am here,” Merlin says, testing how far he can push till his client pushes back. 

“You know what I mean,” Pendragon drawls, annoyed now. “I’m the customer.”

“You said you didn’t want a whore,” he childishly replies.

“Don’t make me fetch you,” he commands with an aggressive growl, but Merlin can hear the playfulness underneath. It’s why he stays put, rather than putting on his flirtatious laugh and crawling forward on his knees. This is a new game he’s never played and he’s excited.

The sudden realization that he’s truly enjoying himself, in a way he hasn’t since trailing behind his mother to the city park, almost makes him physically reel. The vague memories quickly dissipate as he looks at Pendragon, finding an expression of delight that mirrors his own, with an underbelly of attraction that suddenly fills his visions of being pressed down onto the coach. Pendragon’s aware of his lust as his breathing deepens, lips slightly parted so more air can fill his lungs.

“Come here,” he softly commands, and almost in a state of hypnosis, Merlin follows the sound of Pendragon’s voice. Going around the coffee table has somehow become an arduous task, but then he’s settling into his client’s lap.

“What would you like me to do?” It’s not a question they’re supposed to ask; it's something they’re supposed to figure out for themselves. The last time he'd had to ask had been two hours before he was taken away to the Avalon, and the words feel strange in his mouth. There's a weird sense of nostalgia for those times, but not longing. 

“What do _you_ want to do?” Pendragon replies, as a hand travels the seams of his trousers.

Merlin’s head goes blank at the question, and he laughs, because he doesn’t know anymore what he should or shouldn’t be doing.

Pendragon snorts, but doesn’t seem too put off. Instead, the Syndicate heir mischievously asks, “What would you like me to do?”

What would he like Pendragon to do? His client has given him control. It makes him feel awkward, uncomfortable in his own skin, because it’s never been a position he’s held. The years of experience hold him back, unable to bring himself to give his client orders. He settles for telling Pendragon to watch him as he shrugs off his suit jacket, using one hand to teasingly unbutton his dress shirt underneath.

“Talented,” Pendragon chuckles, thoroughly enjoying the show.

Halfway down, Merlin begins rocking his hips against Pendragon in a perfect imitation of what’s on both of their minds. He can feel the stiff member as he presses down and watches the flutter of pleasure glance over Pendragon’s face every time he does so, and suddenly Merlin finds he does want something. He wants to see how long he can keep his client like this, teasing him until he grows impatient, dangerously poking at the feral nature pacing inside his client. It’s funny to think that when he’s been given a choice, he chooses to be reckless.

He begins the lap dance, grazing his arse along the clothed arousal beneath him with a feathered touch. He's still slowly working off his buttons, and he doesn’t stop moving when Pendragon’s hand reaches out to help. Merlin gracefully twists away to evade, earning a cold stare that only encourages him. When Pendragon begins rocking his hips upwards, Merlin pulls back far enough to keep him dissatisfied, and now his client definitely knows what he’s doing.

The moment the last button pops free, Pendragon takes that as his cue and resumes control, grabbing Merlin’s hips and pulling him down onto his lap. A rush of air leaves Merlin's lungs as he feels the shaft right against him. He doesn’t get the chance to breathe as Pendragon drives up to catch his lips, so the kiss is cut regretfully short when Merlin has to pull away for much-needed air.

“You’re even more of a tease when you mean it.” Pendragon’s voice is husky with hunger, staring at Merlin’s reddening lips. A familiar mischievous glint manifests on his client’s face before he orders, “Take everything off but the shirt.”

Merlin gets off to make quick work of his trousers, pulling his pants down with them all in one swift move. It’s not the first time he’s been asked to bare himself vulnerably in front of a fully dressed client.

“Condom?” Pendragon asks to his turned back.

“Nightstand,” he answers, turning to see if Pendragon would get the right drawer. The sight of Pendragon's equally undressed state surprises him. The expensive business suit has been discarded, lying precariously in bits on the floor around him, and Pendragon steps on the pieces as he heads to the drawer though most men take care of their suits as if they're a second skin.

Merlin’s already seen Pendragon naked and understands the danger behind it, but now he lets himself enjoy the play of muscles and thinks about running his hands over them. Distracted, he almost removes his shirt as well, before Pendragon reminds him not to.

“Leave it on,” Pendragon repeats, openly smiling at the view as he makes his way back to Merlin. Pendragon twists and falls back onto the sofa, tugging Merlin down with him. It hurts slamming into Pendragon, but if his client feels any pain he doesn't show it. 

“Put it on me.” Pendragon hands Merlin the condom and jerks his hip, almost jarring him off.

“Shit,” Merlin says under his breath as he grabs onto Pendragon for support, making his client laugh.

Pendragon’s mirth irritates Merlin, and he decides to show it by shimmying lower until his face is level with Pendragon’s arousal. He leans in and mouths at the head.

Pendragon moans, wrapping a hand around the back of Merlin's head, and tries to direct him to bob up and down, but Merlin resists and flicks his tongue across the slit.

“Such a fuckin’ tease,” Pendragon hisses, and snaps a hand forward. He attempts to dodge, but he's too slow. Pendragon pulls Merlin back up to land roughly against his chest, and seconds later, he's prying the cheeks of Merlin's arse apart so that gun-callused fingers can work their way in, making no effort to tease, his fingers already wet with lube. The sensation of the nub inside him being fondled makes him curl up, back arching to the ceiling as he practically bows to Pendragon.

“Stop,” Merlin whines, clawing at the hard chest that supports him.

“Will you do as you’re told?”

Something lightly smacks into Merlin’s chest. As he looks down, he sees it’s the condom he had completely forgotten about.

“Can I still say no?”

“Don’t make me _torture_ you.” The fingers inside widen apart to stretch him open. Merlin gasps, squirming from indecision—let them sink deeper, or lift up so they’ll slip out? But Pendragon acts more quickly than he can decide, using his other hand to keep Merlin down. Merlin feels the hot head of Pendragon’s cock at his opening and freezes.

“I’ll do it if you don’t put it on me. I don’t really care about the Avalon’s rules.”

“Rules don’t apply to you?” Merlin shivers from the feel of the heat so close, without the cover of latex.

“I’m sure they do.”

Merlin thinks that Pendragon is utterly serious, except for the edge of a smile that peeks out at the corner of his lips. He scoffs, “You’ll just worm your way out of it.” 

Pendragon chuckles, pulling Merlin down so the head of his member is just starting to push in, before backing off. “The manager would be more than happy to oblige me. And I’m pretty sure your mouth was sucking on it a moment ago.”

The snort Merlin gives is defensive. He knows the truth of the statement.

“Put it on me,” Pendragon opens the packaged condom and presses the round rubber against his lips, “like this.”

Merlin smiles, transgressions forgotten as he eagerly obeys Pendragon’s request. He sucks on the condom so it will keep to his mouth, and shimmies down again to press his lips to the head, now with the barrier of thin protection.

The member fills his mouth as he rolls the condom down effortlessly. He can hear Pendragon moaning as the girth fills Merlin's throat, the rubber unfurling against his lips. Soon, his nose is buried in the wiry hairs at the base of Pendragon’s member. He sucks, mapping the shape in his mouth and throat to memory, and lavishes his tongue against the bumps of veins. The familiar taste of latex is no hindrance. He ignores the saliva forming at the corners of his mouth, despite the messiness.

 _I’m enjoying this too much_ , Merlin thinks, quickly pulling off with a pop and using his heaving breath as an excuse. Pendragon doesn’t seem to realize Merlin’s alarm, which he takes as a blessing. Enjoying his little rebellion against the Avalon’s rules is one thing, but taking _personal_ pleasure to heart is against one of his own rules. It’s not a vow spoken or pledged, but rather common sense.

“What’s the hold up?” Pendragon pulls Merlin into his lap, their lengths trapped between them.

“Just thinking of how good you’d feel.”

“None of that,” Pendragon says lowly, the ends of Merlin’s shirt grasped in a fist. He can feel the pull against his shoulders.

“Sorry.” Merlin feels embarrassed the minute he says it. Apologizing is such a newbie mistake.

“I’m surprise you know the word.” The following laugh is practically a cackle to Merlin’s ears.

“Well you obviously don’t think much of me, if at all.”

“What I want is less thinking and more action.” The head of Pendragon’s member skims against his opening.

“I think I should think about it,” he replies, slipping back into the banter they share.

“Such a cheeky fucker.” 

Suddenly, Merlin’s arching his back with an erotic cry, as Pendragon pushes himself halfway in.

“Any time now Merlin.” Pendragon’s voice is sultry, coaxing, and impatient. Merlin follows the command though his body shakes from the shock of a quick intrusion.

Merlin lifts up on his knees, letting the head slip out a bit before sinking all the way down, quickly getting a rhythm going. The shirt he’s wearing sticks to his skin, clinging to the sweat as his body heats up from the burn that flows and recedes like a tide. Beneath him, Pendragon’s eyes are half-lidded but still watch him just as intently.

Merlin doesn’t know how long he’s been riding Pendragon by the time his panting is more than simply pleasure. He feels the muscles in his legs wear down from fatigue and it becomes more difficult, but Pendragon says, “keep going,” whenever Merlin slows down by even a fraction. 

His legs are ready to give out too soon, and Merlin’s sure he can no longer follow Pendragon’s insistent demands.

“I’m tired.”

“Keep going.”

“Go to hell,” Merlin snaps, letting himself sink down onto the length. The pain in his legs is great enough that he can barely take any pleasure from the sex. There’s so much sweat that his dress shirt is molded to his skin, a translucent second layer that doesn’t hide anything.

Pendragon sighs dramatically, but the smile and his rolling hips tell a different story than impatience. He wants Merlin worn down. Hands begin to wander over Merlin’s form, slipping beneath to pry the shirt from his skin, then flattening it down to stick it back.

“That’s uncomfortable.”

“Don’t care.” 

A sudden grab at Merlin’s hips has him lifted and dropped back down. He whines as white dots cross his vision. It feels good, and Pendragon does it again, over and over. Merlin’s free hand moves over his own erection, as he gasps and cries in pleasure. Pendragon has never done this before, and Merlin is starting to believe that he was holding back during their first appointment, though not by much.

The pleasure begins to build as his sore leg muscles tighten in rhythm with those in his guts at a frenzied tempo. He’s curled up on himself, uncaring if he looks hunched over and sick, because he feels the exact opposite. Even if it’s almost difficult to breathe through every moment he’s dropped onto Pendragon’s cock, his body is in absolute ecstasy.

Like the snap of a rubber band, Merlin suddenly arches in the other direction, head to the ceiling as he comes into his hands. It’s only then that Pendragon keeps him still, thrusting to completion. Merlin watches with heavy-lidded eyes as his client spasms and grunts, filling the condom with milky fluid.

They take their time to recuperate, neither moving to dislodge or to clean themselves up, until Pendragon tugs Merlin to lie on top of him.

“So, Merlin.” Pendragon says his name with slow exaggerated drawl, as though he’s feeling the formation of the words. “Why’d you give yourself that name?”

“That’s always been my name,” he replies, slightly insulted.

“Well, then Merlin. Stop using Mr. Pendragon, my father has nothing to do with this.”

Merlin blushes, though he thinks he shouldn’t. “I never called—”

“You don’t call me by anything, expect ‘you,’” Pendragon interrupts. “ _You_ avoid my name all together. I can practically hear you saying 'Mr. Pendragon', even through that misshapen head of yours.”

Pendragon rubs the tip of his ear between his fingers, and Merlin jerks away to make him stop.

“Go to hell.”

“As your customer, I demand that you call me by my first name.”

“ _Now_ you’re pulling that card.”

“Come on, Merlin,” again he draws out his name, “we haven’t got all day.”

“You’re staying here for two and a half weeks.”

Pendragon flips them so his weight crushes down upon Merlin’s thinner frame. The half-hard member still inside him shifts, his client undoubtedly turned on by his own game. Hands spread his legs so they’re a touch too wide, and Merlin can’t do anything with the heavy body on top of him.

“Don’t,” Merlin grits out.

Pendragon pushes a tad bit more, making Merlin curse at him in pain.

“The hell!”

“Say it.”

Pendragon is completely serious, and Merlin realizes that he inaccurately thought this to be just another game.

“Fine then, Arthur.” After a moment’s pause, he adds, “ _You_ shit.” His legs are free, and Merlin pushes at Pendragon…or at Arthur, so he can massage the muscles that were so close to being overstretched. “That could’ve hurt.”

“I wouldn’t have,” Arthur says softly, placing a string of kisses at the nape of his neck. “You hungry?” he asks, moving to collect his clothing.

Merlin’s frozen, unsure of what to make of the affection his client had displayed. The kisses felt incredibly intimate, and it oddly makes him feel vulnerable. He quickly regains his senses, answering, “Are you? I could order what you missed last time.”

They carry on like normal, though Merlin finds himself looking at Arthur and wonders.

 

The next few months are interesting. Arthur’s second appointment passes without much trouble, though laden with Merlin’s bewilderment, and another lengthy session is set up fairly soon after that. When Merlin inquires if Arthur is still ‘sorta’ hiding out, his client flashes him a smirk and stays silent. It’s infuriating, but probably for the best. He shouldn’t delve into the affairs of the clientele, yet the strangeness of the boss’s son treating Merlin’s room as a regular home makes it hard not to wonder. Nonetheless, Merlin endures the curiosity, getting to know Arthur’s preferences, mostly sex and food, with each new appointment. 

Other clients complain lightly about trying to schedule times with him, but Merlin’s good at easing their tensions. As for his appointments with Arthur, the sessions are strange as he watches his client enter and leave throughout random days of his paid time. Sometime the Syndicate heir would leave for a few hours or more and then come back, smelling of gun powder and cigars, or talking on the phone, his grip a little too hard. Merlin watches, wondering if the cellphone in his hand will crack, and if there's something he should do. 

Usually he would ply clients with sweet-nothings, cooing in their ears and kneading the tension away, but Arthur would only scoff at him. And as much as they enjoy throwing insults at each other, Merlin’s not dumb enough to try it when Arthur’s brow is furrowed so deeply. 

“Do you need something for the headache? I can call for some medicine.” 

Arthur looks at him in surprise, but Merlin can see his expression soften a tad.

“You don’t have any in the room.”

“Safety precaution, so no.”

“They have enough money to buy you, but are still willing to resort to cheap highs.”

“I guess everyone starts off from somewhere. Who cares? A high’s a high.”

“Really,” Arthur reaches out, tugging a sleeve up past his elbows, “Do you know this for a fact?”

“No, I was taught better.”

“By who, The Avalon?”

He opens his mouth to give an answer, but a satisfying one doesn’t pop into his head. Merlin has always stayed away from drugs, a woman’s voice advising him to keep safe, away from needles and the wrong people amongst the crowd of degenerates. “I don’t know,” Merlin says to himself, trying to remember a face he’s long forgotten.

“I don’t understand you at times.” Arthur is looking at him, perplexed, but Merlin can see that the edge has been taken off his shoulders, so he’s done something to help.

“I can’t imagine you understanding anything.”

He doesn’t see Arthur pounce until it’s too late, he has Merlin laid flat against the bed, a wide sinful smile on his face. “I’ll get you screaming for me. Want to see if I understand that?”

The vague picture of the older woman leaves his mind in favor of the thrill of Arthur Pendragon.

But afterwards, the blurry memory wanders back in, and it’s frusturating because he doesn't know anything about himself or who might be that can clear the image, answering his questions. Instead, all the inquiries he can ask end up going to Arthur, who doesn’t at all mind talking about his privileged life. 

“That seems excessive” Merlin says, unable to imagine the grandeur Arthur is describing, despite the miniature chandelier hanging above his head—the lighting fixture doesn't belong to him, and that’s the main difference between him and Arthur. Said client has his hands behind his head as he stares at the ceiling, while Merlin lays tummy down.

“Really,” Arthur sounds incredulous, “And what do you suggest happens at a birthday party?”

“I don’t know.” Merlin takes a minute to think it over. “Normally there’s a cake and presents.”

“Good for you, you got the basics. Do you really not know?” Arthur almost sounds affronted, making Merlin feel self-conscious.

“Not really. I’ve never really had a birthday party. I don’t know when my birthday is?”

The shocked silence that follows has Merlin laughing at Arthur’s astonished expression.

“Isn’t your birthday April 1st?” Merlin looks at Arthur with a raised brow, interrogating. With no apology, Arthur answers, “I’ll admit to looking at your file. You’re an employee after all.”

“I’m sure that’s why you were looking,” Merlin mumbles, rolling his eyes and continuing with the birthday inquiry, “But how can you know so many people that would come to your party?”

“I don’t. Most of them are my father’s associates. You play nice and make an impression.”

“What kind of impression?” he asks.

“Whatever impression I need to make.”

The ominous Uther Pendragon. Merlin wonders what’s it’s like to have a crime lord for a father? Or to be the heir of a Syndicate? Merlin scans Arthur’s body for the scars and bruises that he’s seen on members of street gangs. He'd once even seen a guy with part of his ear missing, having been grazed by a bullet in a territory dispute. The only scar he can see on Arthur is barely visible, something too difficult to catch with a quick glance over, even hard to see with Merlin's careful check. He probably wouldn’t have caught it if Arthur watches stretching his body out on the bed, easing his overused muscles.

“Why April 1st?”

“April 1st was the first date that came to mind when I was asked, once. I stuck with it.”

“You put April Fool’s as your birthday? Why am I not surprised,” he says sarcastically, though his amusement is apparent.

“Well, I still can’t believe you had a girl pop out of your cake.”

“That wasn’t my fault. My men can be…practical jokers.”

“Your men. Like henchmen.”

“Friends, bodyguards, whatever you want to call them—they’re my men.”

“How can your friends be bodyguards?”

Arthur sighs, rolling onto his side so he can look at Merlin. “My father gave me some people to command. Of course they were also gonna keep me safe, but they work for me and they work with me on whatever I’m given to do. I’m their leader. I give them orders and expect them to comply.”

“And as friends?”

Merlin watches Arthur choose his words carefully. “We’ve been with each other through thick and thin.”

He waits for more, expecting another lengthy speech, but Arthur stays silent and contemplative. “You sound like you’re leading an army,” Merlin says, breaking the quiet atmosphere.

Arthur flops onto his back, clearly exasperated. “Merlin! How does anyone stand you? You ask so many questions.”

“That last thing I said wasn’t a question.”

“Same difference. You don’t shut up.”

“Well I can’t be that terrible if you’re willing to hide out with me.” Arthur glowers at him, imploring him to stop, but Merlin opts to mindlessly smile back.

 

As more appointments are made over the months, he learns more about Arthur’s friends. There is Leon, who sounds like everything like a right-hand man should be. Lancelot, a man whose loyalty to Arthur is almost a fault, betraying his own street gang for his client’s benefit. Percival is described to be a mountain of a man, who had joined the group with a personal vendetta to dispatch a particular drug lord, and later stayed. Gwaine, a con artist who had tried to swindle out of a tab at a Pendragon-owned club, and had somehow been recruited by Arthur—he was also responsible for the girl in the cake. Lastly, there’s Elyan, an expert weapons technician, who Merlin is almost elated to hear is Gwen’s brother. 

Truthfully, Merlin is surprised that Arthur or Uther hadn’t had some of these men killed on the spot for the stories Arthur told, the notion fuelled by the whirlwind gossip of Pendragon ruthlessness. The more stories Merlin listens to, the more he wonders what Arthur actually does for his father. Dealing with Arthur’s agitation doesn’t get easier either, as he continues to randomly come and go during his appointments. Lately Arthur’s been out longer, and seems to come back feeling more defeated. One time, Arthur ends up breaking his phone, throwing it across the room so hard it shatters against the wall. It becomes harder for Merlin to soothe him.

It’s almost a year since the first appointment when Merlin decides to ask, “What do you do?”

“In what?”

“Your father’s…business.” They’re naked atop the sheets, damp with sweat where they lay.

“Anything he needs done.” The familiar answer is cold, but not stilted.

Even though he started the topic, Merlin wonders how to continue the conversation and blindly puts forth the first thing that comes to mind. “Is it true the Pendragon Syndicate has their fingers in everything?”

“I would think you’d know.” Arthur’s joke is forced, but Merlin follows along.

“That’s low-brow, even for you,” Merlin says with a artificial chuckle.

When their forced amusement subsides, Arthur looks at him. “Did someone say we’ve got ventures everywhere?”

Merlin shrugs. “I hear rumours.”

“What kind of rumours?”

He doesn’t want to say. There were a lot of rumours. There were also spews of gripes from clients that worked for other Syndicates or had legitimate businesses with under-the-table deals. He can’t say, because the Avalon is neutral territory. “Rumours that your father’s really the devil,” Merlin settles for, aiming for the more ridiculous chatter he’s heard.

Arthur smiles at him, probably hearing this many times before. “Possibly true,” he shrugs, exaggeratingly exuding nonchalance.

“Which makes you the devil’s son.”

He gives a thoughtful and interested, “hmm.”

“So you command a legion of demons.”

“They could be considered that.”

“And you have a big three-headed dog?”

Merlin’s joke gets Arthur laughing uproariously. “Now I know you're making that up.” He kisses Merlin’s lips before pulling back to say, “No massive three-headed dog. But I did always want a dragon.”

“Where would you keep it?”

“I don’t know. A dungeon?”

“You keep prisoners in dungeons, not pets.”

“I don’t know. Some dogs need to know their place.”

The comment catches Merlin off guard, because underneath their joviality, he knows Arthur isn’t talking about pets anymore. Merlin looks over, expecting to see the animalistic cold dead stare he’s seen before. Instead, he finds an expression that matches the barrenness of a stone statue. 

“Do you have a dungeon?” He’s somewhat serious.

“I’m sure I can build one.” Arthur sounds serious too.

After a moment of silence, Merlin finally gathers the courage to ask one question in particular. “Do you kill people?”

Arthur looks at him carefully. “Where exactly do you hear these rumours?”

Merlin shrugs, and miserably fails at a coy response. “It’s a secret.”

He feels like he’s spent more time with Arthur in these scant months than he has with the regulars he's known for years. He’s not sure when their time with each other had begun to change, when the sex between them had started coming almost second. 

“Come here.”

“I’m lying right beside you,” Merlin says, yet doesn’t hesitate to shuffle closer, until they’re pressed together.

Arthur lifts his chin to kiss him, nipping his lips when he isn’t exploring his mouth with his tongue. They kiss for hours, until the ring of a mobile pries Arthur from Merlin and back to the outside world.

Merlin takes the opportunity to shower when Arthur leaves, and almost misses his telephone ringing. It’s such a surprise that it keeps him stock still, listening to the tones chime through his room. He quickly wraps a towel around his waist and rushes to pick up the phone. They don’t get calls during appointments unless it is important.

“Hello?”

“Hey Merlin, how are you?”

“I’m fine.” Merlin frowns, wanting to know the reason for the call. He’s about to remind Gwen that he’s currently on the clock, but Gwen speaks first.

“I know I shouldn’t be doing this,” she nervously rushes out, “but Gaius wants to talk to you. In person.”

Confusion and elation mix as Merlin plays with the phone’s cord. “Send him up,” he says hesitantly, wondering why Gaius couldn’t talk over the phone, or at least wait until between appointments. The elderly man knows the Avalon’s system. “Tell him to be quick. I don’t know when my client will be back.”

“I will,” Gwen says, before hanging up.

It’s been a long time since Gaius last visited. The elderly man has been the closest thing Merlin has to a family ever since he brought him to shelter at the Avalon. Every once and a while Gaius would come to check on his progress, when being the Pendragon’s on-call chauffeur didn’t take up his time. He had never asked for any favours, or suggested that a payment would be required. The only thing Gaius ever does is inquire about his well-being, and make sure he’s adjusting to the Avalon. Merlin also notices Gaius’s sad eyes whenever the chauffeur looks his way. He can see a pool of regret. 

He doesn’t understand Gaius’s relation to him, and he'd never asked, but the small pendant that Gaius had dropped in his hands...

That blurred image of a woman suddenly clears a bit, and he can vividly see the small pendent handing from a chain around the woman’s neck. ‘ _Mother_ ,’ he thinks. He almost repeats it to himself out loud, to make the fantasy real, but a knock at the door interrupts.

The wide smile that stretches across his face as the door opens is completely involuntary. He is truly glad to see Gaius again.

But the worry lines creasing into the man’s face say that this isn’t a social visit. It looks as though a few years have been taken from Gaius, and his slow gait now seems stiff.

“Gaius?” Merlin asks, hurriedly closing the door behind his guest.

“Merlin, my boy, how are you?” Gaius pats his shoulders, as though affirming a pulse.

“I’m good.” He watches the elder fidget, nervousness threatening to shake the old man apart. “I’m with a client though, and I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

“Yes, yes.” Gaius fidgets even more.

Suddenly, Merlin gets an inkling of what this is about before Gaius opens his mouth.

“I’ve heard that the young Pendragon boy has taken an…interest in you.”

“He’s set up a few appointments,” he says cautiously. 

“He hasn’t asked you anything about yourself, has he?”

“What sort of questions would he ask?” he questions with suspicion.

“Merlin,” Gaius places both hands on his shoulder as a comforting gesture, “I need you to be careful with the Pendragon boy.”

Merlin’s mind goes to a number of things: Arthur’s ice cold stares, the predator-like muscles of his body, the gun hidden in his jacket that seems like an extension of his arm. A sudden memory of hands around his throat almost chokes him, and for some inexplicable reason, he feels echoes of the warm pendant dropping into his palm and his hand starts clenching.

“Is it about my mom?” The question surprises him as much as it surprises Gaius. 

“It’s about your parents,” Gaius hesitates to say after a lengthy silence between them.

“Parents,” Merlin says, testing out the word.

Gaius sighs, looking as though he needs to take a seat, but has resolved to stand instead. He keeps silent though, at a loss for words. And Merlin can understand, because he doesn`t know where his own thoughts should begin.

“I think I might remember my mother a bit,” he says, to give Gaius somewhere to start.

Gaius gives Merlin a sad smile. “She was a very kind woman.”

Faded memories trickling in bit by bit. “Was she a prostitute?” The memory could be a trick of his mind, but he can recall his mother putting on high heel boots, telling him to be a good boy while she went to work.

The grimace on Gaius’s face is all Merlin needs to see. “And was my father one of her clients?”

Gaius shakes his head, surprising Merlin. “I can’t say I really know the details. I knew your father first, and met Hunith through him.”

“Is that her name?” Merlin quickly asks, eager to know.

“Yes,” Gaius smiles softly at his enthusiasm, yet that small joy dissipates. “But Merlin, you can’t say any of this to the Pendragon heir.”

“Arthur? Why would I tell Arthur?”

Gaius’s brows rises, and Merlin doesn’t know why until he realizes his slip. “I mean Mr. Pendragon.”

His guardian’s frown only deepens, grasping his shoulders tightly. “Merlin, it’s not safe.”

“What do you mean?”

Gaius sighs, dropping his hands to his sides. “Your father, Balinor, used to work for Uther Pendragon.”

Merlin’s throat goes tight. “I’m guessing it didn’t end well.”

“Balinor betrayed the Syndicate, and Uther hunted him down for it. Your father had to go into hiding. And your mother did as well, with you. I didn’t know she had died until much later.”

“So you went and found me.”

“Yes.” Gaius lets the information sink in. “So Arthur Pendragon hasn’t tried to ask you anything—”

“—No!” Merlin exclaims. “We don’t really exchange personal information.” While clients tend to divulge their own secrets and woes, Merlin never has a reason to. Now there is a reason not to.

“Arthur Pendragon can’t know about you. Uther will find out.”

“Is Uther really that bad?” Everything he's heard are rumours, but Gaius’s worry seems to make every elaborate story true.

“Betrayals are never taken lightly within Syndicates. I’ve worked for Uther Pendragon for many years, and you need to keep safe. Don’t tell the Pendragon boy anything I told you.”

“Would he tell…” Merlin’s voice drops off, recalling Arthur's words a few hours ago, how he did what his father needed done. “Of course, I won’t tell.”

Gaius nods, satisfied with his answer. “I should go,” he says, heading towards the door. “It’s good to see you well.” 

“You too Gaius.” Merlin replies, watching as Gaius searches his pockets for the door key.

“Remember, keep safe,” Gaius advises him, right before turning to envelop him in a tight hug.

“Don’t worry Gaius.” Merlin hugs him back, before recalling that Arthur could be due to come back. “Come on. You can’t be here if my client comes back. ” He makes particular care to not use Arthur’s name.

Merlin closes the door behind Gaius, and leans against it. Everything Gaius had said repeats in his mind. More importantly, he has a name for her face: Hunith. 

Despite the fact that Arthur could come back any minute, he needs to take it out and hold it. Merlin retrieves it, sitting on the bed to study the tiny object. The pendant is small and there’s nothing extravagant or expensive about it, but he treasures it, keeping it safe in the pocket of a torn shirt which he places amongst his socks. 

The image of Hunith with the pendant around her neck is one that Merlin inadvertently falls asleep to, turning the pendant between his fingers, this way and that. He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep, until the click of the door opening jolts him awake. His first instinct is to hide the pendant in his fist. When he checks the time, he sees that it's the morning of the next day.

“You were out for a long time,” Merlin comments, trying to devise a way to put his mother’s pendant back to safety.

“Yeah,” Arthur says gruffly.

Merlin straightens at Arthur’s drained voice. “Are you okay?”

Arthur pulls a bottle of scotch from the bar, pouring himself a glass and gulping it down. He doesn’t say anything to Merlin, opting to pour another glass, as well as one for him. The Syndicate heir ambles over, sitting heavily beside Merlin on the bed, causing him to bounce with the momentum. He places the second cup in his hands, then clinks their glasses together harshly.

“Cheers,” Arthur says moodily, raising the drink to his lips. Merlin follows suit and drinks the alcohol, albeit at a much slower pace than Arthur, who looks like he wants to drown in it.

“You can tell me?” Merlin urges.

Arthur studies him, which makes him nervous, thinking about Gaius’s warning and with the pendant still in his hand.

“There may be some evidence against me,” Arthur finally says.

“Evidence?”

“When you commit crimes, sometimes evidence is left behind.” Arthur sounds bitter and frustrated. On instinct, Merlin uses his free hand to knead a shoulder that seems to be perfectly mimicking a concrete slab. Arthur groans in satisfaction as Merlin’s fingers grind the stiffness away.

“So you used this place as a hideout.”

“Sort-of-hideout, remember?” Arthur teases, looking around the room, before settling back to him, “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not.”

Arthur snorts at Merlin’s blasé unconcern, “Clearly not.” He smiles at Merlin, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips. But the moment Arthur frowns and cocks his head, Merlin knows he’s in trouble. “What are you hiding behind your back?”

“Hiding?” He hadn’t even realized he'd placed his closed fist behind himself, in the most obvious of fashions.

“Yes, hiding.” Merlin doesn’t fight when Arthur reaches around to pull back his hand, nor when he pries it open. The best chance of not being perceived guilty is to not act guilty. So, Merlin tries not to twitch as the pendant is revealed. A scenario crosses his mind of Arthur’s angry shock before he drags Merlin out into the hallway. He imagines being taken to Uther, limp between two henchmen, as Arthur presents the pendant to his father.

None of that happens. Arthur looks at him curiously, wondering why Merlin had been hiding a piece of jewellery behind his back.

“Is this a gift from a client?” The side of his mouth curls in distaste.

“Yes,” Merlin exclaims, jumping at the given lie.

“I would think the clientele that come here could do better than this. Rather girlish too.”

“You would know.”

“I would in fact,” Arthur says with no shame, practically oozing an aura of experience with women. “But stories of that will have to wait for some other day. My time here is going to have to be cut short.”

“What?” Merlin hadn’t been expecting that. Arthur is cancelling the appointment? That hasn’t been done since… he could almost laugh at himself, because the last person who had cancelled an appointment during the session was Arthur himself.

“Don’t worry.” Arthur takes Merlin’s empty glass, dropping it to the floor. 

“Right, because you aren’t.” The beginnings of one of Merlin’s rambles is coming on. “You’re saying you’re going to be arrested.”

“Merlin,” Arthur reproaches, giving a deep kiss to stop the flow of words. They take their time, letting things intensify, only pulling away when their breathing becomes short. Arthur plants a final kiss and casually says, “Until next time.”

Merlin gets up, following someone’s lead towards the door for a second time. The pendant is still clenched in a hand, but thoughts of his mother are far from his mind. As Arthur opens the door, Merlin has to ask, “Will the charges stick?”

Arthur gives him a cocky smirk, “I won’t let them,” before leaving down the hallway, with no fear that he could be spending the next few years, or even a decade more in prison.

  
 **  
 ******

****PART 2****

 ** **** **

The news of Arthur Pendragon’s arrest makes way around pretty quickly, though Merlin had already known it was coming. Some of the other residents, even some of his clients, asked if he'd known. _What did the Pendragon heir say? Was he scared? Did he give you any details? Where you surprised when the police came to arrest him?_ Even if he can’t answer any of the questions, it's stupidly obvious that the last one is only a rumour. There’s no way the police could have come _here_ to make an arrest. 

If there’s anything that does surprise Merlin, it’s what Arthur has been arrested for.

He had curiously asked if Arthur had killed before, which had never really been answered, but Merlin hadn’t doubted his own assumptions, unconsciously tracing imaginary thick lines along his neck. 

Four counts of murder, along with an almost petty addition of loitering. Four people dead, in what’s believed to be a Syndicate territory dispute, and evidence that places Arthur at the crime, committing the deed.

Merlin feels the weight of the gun in his hands again, a finger tense against the trigger. What he'd really wanted to ask Arthur is: what is it like when someone dies by your hands? He trembles thinking about it, and he can’t imagine Arthur scared like he felt. 

When had working for his father begun for Arthur? Over the months of the trial hearing Merlin imagines the possibilities, placing Arthur in the stories Syndicate clients would blab to him: stories of making deals, going to meetings, threating the competition, and dealing with underlings in an always self-congratulatory fashion—with Uther’s most loyal subordinates handing down underworld justice, like a soldier following his duties.

He thinks about who Arthur is, which always leads him to thinking about who his father could have been. What had his father done working for Uther Pendragon? And how close to the organization had his father been to bring that sort of wrath upon him and his relations? 

Honestly, the thought of his father as a member of the Pendragon Syndicate doesn’t bother him, nor does his mother being a prostitute like him. It makes him feel warm—not warm exactly, but he doesn’t feel so low when recalling the insults he’d received from some of the foster homes he’d been placed into, before he ran away. His mother had been like him. And if Balinor was his father, and had worked for Pendragon, then it makes his hands twitch a lot less.

 

On the third month since Arthur’s last appointment, Merlin notices that of all of his regulars, Tauren is the most enthusiastic about the news of Arthur Pendragon’s worsening situation with the law. He’s vaguely aware of Tauren’s feud with the Pendragons, and either Tauren doesn’t know that Arthur is one of his clients, or it’s not important enough for him to break off the sexual companionship. 

Currently, his legs are tightly wrapped around Tauren’s waist, holding on as his client roughly rocks his hips, grunting every so often with his pushes. Merlin doesn’t know what his client’s thinking, but it’s not him. At least the smile on his face says he’s greatly pleased. Even after finding out that he’s overstayed his appointment time and has to pay the fine, he still leaves with a smile. Once the door closes, Merlin moves to take a quick shower and change to new clothes and fresh bed sheets. He has an hour before his last client of the day arrives, but a knock on the door stops his preparations.

Merlin sighs, scanning the room, looking for anything that might have been left behind. He sees Tauren’s cufflink on the floor beside the bed and picks it up. 

“You forgot—,” he says, as the door opens, only to have his voice stick in his throat as he sees the man who comes through. “Arthur?”

It’s like the Syndicate heir has risen from the dead, sweeping past him as as though nothing had happened in the past months.

“Don’t be _too_ happy, Merlin.”

“You’re free.”

Arthur snorts. “I was never devoid of freedom to begin with.”

Merlin quickly closes the door and trails after Arthur, who goes to lie back against the sofa. “I thought you said they had evidence,” Merlin says, miffed by Arthur’s attitude.

“Clean as a whistle now.” He motions for Merlin to sit beside him.

“I have another client in an hour.”

“You can spend a little bit of time with me.”

“I have things I need to do,” he huffs.

Arthur ignores him, motioning again for Merlin to come.

When Merlin takes his seat, he places a bit of space between them, thinking about Arthur’s arrest. If Arthur notices, he doesn’t comment.

“Who’s this other client?” He asks, stretching his legs out under the table.

“A regular.” Merlin keeps it vague, looking at Arthur inquisitively. “Why are you here?”

“I told you the evidence wouldn’t stick.” He’s ignored again. 

Merlin stares at Arthur, itching to get him to leave so he can get ready for Simmons, a wealthy business man who secretly spends time fondling him when he’s not with his wife. He's one of Merlin's oldest clients—and by old, he meant age.

Suddenly, Arthur pulls him onto his lap and gives him one hell of a kiss, smoothing hands along his body, feeling the jut of bones and the definition of lean muscles.

“You smell like someone else's cologne,” Arthur comments without a hint of jealousy. In fact, he sounds pleased. Merlin jerks back to scrutinize him, and sees the dirty ideas forming in Arthur’s head.

“I told you, I was with another client. And another one is coming soon.”

“Do I know him?”

Merlin’s brows rise reproachfully. Fifteen minutes have already been wasted, and he hopes there’s enough time to blow-dry his hair. “You’re just here to bug me, aren’t you?” He’s vexed that Arthur couldn’t have set up another appointment like a regular customer. Despite the trepidation of knowing that Arthur had killed four people¬—Merlin doesn’t doubt that—it’s easy to flow into their banter, something that is uniquely theirs.

“Fine, I’ll go,” Arthur laughs, clearly enjoying Merlin way too much, as he heads out.

The affirming realization that Arthur had simply came to bother him, makes him want to spit out a string of insults. It’s the only explanation for Arthur acting like the stupid prat he is right now. Merlin wonders why he'd missed him at all, boredom aside.

Yet even in his annoyance, he has to ask, “You’re going to set up an appointment?”

“Probably in a few days, I’m not a hundred percent in the clear yet.”

“What happen to clean as a whistle?” Merlin asks, sounding unimpressed. Arthur’s standing at the threshold, holding the door open and still keeping up his conversation with Merlin. He withholds the urge to quickly push him out.

Arthur kisses him on the cheek, and then tells him, “When I make my appointment, you'd better make it worthwhile for me.”

“Whatever, your highness,” he grouses, closing the door in Arthur's face. He’s only got a bit more than half an hour to freshen up himself and the room. Yet, he does have to admit relief to see Arthur doing well. Merlin’s only been in jail once for sexual solicitation, but the experience had made him realize he couldn’t survive prison if he was ever caught again. He'd learned to stay well within the zones where he wouldn’t be bothering nicer neighbourhoods.

His elation about Arthur’s release almost makes him forget the possible backlash that would be coming his way. The very next day, Tauren is back, and the minute Merlin sees him, he knows this appointment is going to be a little rough.

“Fucking Pendragon,” Tauren hisses, divesting him of his clothes with harsh yanks and pulls that burn against his skin.

Merlin doesn’t say anything, trying to do everything in his power to calm Tauren down, but the man is too lost in his frustrations to listen to soft words or touches. “Shh,” Merlin whispers in his ear, stroking through the hairs on Tauren’s chest and flitting fingers along the muscles of his abdomen. “Come to bed,” he laughs with forced joy, hoping he can get Tauren to forget about the dropped charges.

“Hmm,” Tauren growls in between their kisses, “you’re a minx.”

He tilts his head and laughs again, giving a small nip along the collarbone, before pulling his client down on top of him.

Tauren sniffs into his hair. “You don’t know how good you make this feel.”

“I don’t?”

Tauren laughs, “Always so sweet.” A hand trails down Merlin’s cheek, and he tries not to frown against the hard pressure.

“You’re not going to take your clothes off?” he pouts, already knowing the answer with the way Tauren is behaving. Maybe he'd even known well before, when Gwen had informed him of the appointment's sudden inclusion.

“Oh, I like it like this.”

“How ‘bout like this?” he asks, spreading his legs for him.

Tauren’s hands pry his legs wider, running up and down his inner thighs. He hums again, looking at one particular area. “Show me.”

Merlin sucks two fingers in his mouth to wet them, even though he doesn’t need to. Tauren lifts his arse to get a better view, silently telling Merlin to get on with it. The fingers leave his mouth with a pop and teasingly slip down to his passage, easily going in. He gets to work putting on a show, doing everything right, getting Tauren to replace his fingers with his own, and exaggerating any tingle of pleasure he feels when Tauren eases his thick member in.

One leg hooks over Tauren’s shoulder, while the other wraps around his side and is held in place by his client’s rough hands. Merlin knows he'd made an error in judgement, that Tauren doesn’t want sweet, or for him to ease his frustrations away, and that anything he might try isn’t going to work. His client needs it rough, inflicting exactly what he feels inside.

Merlin looks up at Tauren to give a smile, but he can tell that his client is lost in his head, and braces himself for the onslaught. His gasps can be mistaken for pleasure, as long as he keeps his face turned away. It’s easier when Tauren flips him onto his stomach, pressing him flat down on the mattress. He grits his teeth, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth as Tauren pounds away. A sudden sharp pain tells him there’s a tear and Merlin has to gasp from the feeling of it. He hasn’t been torn like this in a long time, not since working the streets. Maybe he’s gotten a little soft, because the prickling of tears form at the corner of his eyes. He’s happy when Tauren is finally done.

“Shit!” he hears Tauren frantically whisper, probably seeing the blood on the condom and sheets. “Son of a bitch!”

Opting to lie still, Merlin lets his client rage further. Usually there are penalties that would be instilled, restrictions to access the residents, but Tauren could probably give a nice payoff, knowing how Cedric works. 

Tauren tilts Merlin's head so he can look at him and Merlin hopes there are no tear tracks on his face. “Fuck!” his client yells angrily, not liking what he sees, and straightens his clothes before bolting out the door.

It’s a few minutes later before Cedric comes in giving his own string of swears. Merlin frowns, not really understanding. From experience he knows this isn’t too bad, but it might look worse than it actually is.

“It’s fine Cedric,” Merlin says, “it’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad?” his boss says in disbelief. “Do you know how many cancellations there’s going to be? God damn Tauren! I’m going to have the doctor have a look at you.” Cedric leaves, slamming the door, and probably causing too much of a disturbance stomping through the halls. 

Merlin winces as he moves his legs, trying to shift himself fully on the bed so his feet aren’t hanging off. ‘ _It’s really not that bad_ ,’ Merlin thinks, ‘ _I’ve had worse_.’ It’s not a lie, but it’s been a long time since he’s had to endure this sort of pain.

The commotion returns with Cedric ushering in the Avalon’s doctor. In the end, Merlin’s given a few weeks off, which makes Cedric even angrier, calling Gwen to cancel or try to get clients to reschedule all his appointments. He knows Tauren has enough money to appease Cedric, though his mood will be worse. None of his regulars would be happy either, and he’ll have his work cut out for him after his recovery. At least he has time to figure out how to soothe each of them.

 

He should have known Arthur wouldn’t be patient enough to wait, especially when he doesn’t have to. He's terrified waking up, knowing someone else is in the room with him. Merlin wonders if he has enough time run to the door, before remembering he isn't even able to get out that way. The pain in his arse would be troublesome as well. Maybe he can throw something at the intruder and knock him unconscious.

“Calm down.”

His fear abates upon recognition of the voice, but he doesn’t calm. “What the hell are you doing here?” He bolts from bed ignoring the pain, too annoyed that a client would dare break and enter his room.

“Wondering why the Avalon’s dispatcher called me to reschedule my appointment with you.”

Arthur's suit jacket is folded and lying against the back of his sofa. There’s a steaming cup of tea in his hand, a silver tray on his coffee table with the teapot, milk, and sugar, which means someone had to have delivered it up to his room.

Merlin lies back down, pulling the covers over his head as though he’s trying to fall asleep. “Go away.” 

“Why should I?”

He says nothing, choosing to stay silent. It won’t be that easy. The bed dips when Arthur sits beside him, and even with the blanket over him, Merlin can feel Arthur’s presence. The thin blanket is lifted up and over his legs, leaving him bare from the waist down. Merlin doesn’t move as Arthur investigates, hands pressing unconcernedly to bruises. The higher the touches go, the more wound up Merlin feels. He’s sure Arthur feels it too.

A finger probes him, spreading the cream the doctor instructed him to administer along the passage. Merlin hisses when Arthur finds the tear.

“Who did this?”

He huffs, having no intention of telling Arthur about a client working for a rival syndicate. “The client just got a little rough.”

“Rough enough to cancel my appointment.”

Merlin throws off his blanket, rolling away from Arthur. “You’re not the only person who’s scheduled with me.” There’s a twitch of a frown on Arthur face, making Merlin realize his mistake in mentioning his other clients. They stay silent, neither giving in to the other, until Merlin lies back down and turns away from Arthur. 

He hears Arthur sigh, probably rolling his eyes at him. The rustle of fabric tells him what Arthur’s doing before the blanket is gently placed over his body again. “I’ll see you in a few weeks,” Arthur says in his ears, then pulls the blanket fully over his head.

As the doctor had said, it takes him those few weeks to fully heal and be able to work again, and the sudden onslaught of clients calling in for appointments reminds Merlin how annoying injuries can be. He'd forgotten that as many times he’ll have to kiss and make-up with his clients, he’ll get coddled in return. His only regular female client proceeds to treat him like a long-lost pet, and he’s probably much too happy to have that session end.

Silently, he finds himself counting down the days to his appointment with Arthur, because he knows the man won’t attempt to smother him with ‘love’ and ‘care.’ At the same time, he almost dreads it. The questions have crossed his mind: how much pull does Arthur have within his father’s business? How easy would it be for the Pendragon heir to find the name of his last client? How easy it is for someone to get away with murder?

As Merlin kisses Arthur, both of them eager to get reacquainted with the rhythm between their bodies, the hands sliding down his back begin to make him nervous. He pulls away smiling at Arthur, knowing it won’t fool him, but needing to create space between them. Thankfully all he receives is a raised brow.

“How’s your week been?” Arthur asks, with an undertone that gives him away. “Receive any get well cards from your other clients?”

“Cute,” he monotonously replies.

Arthur simply gives a “hmm,” which seems bundled with different sorts of meanings. The Syndicate heir looks at him contemplatively, as though he’s searching for injuries Merlin hasn’t revealed. There’s something forming beneath that content face, peering out within Arthur’s eyes, and instincts tell him to quickly veer his client’s thoughts from whatever he’s planning.

“Come to bed.” Merlin pulls on Arthur’s hand, taking the lead.

“Are you trying to distract me?”

Merlin bats away the grip of fear that tightens at his lungs, hearing the subtle rage in Arthur’s voice at his unwelcomed seduction. “Yes,” he replies frankly.

Arthur huffs. “I enjoy your honesty.”

“Lies,” Merlin whispers in Arthur’s ears, before yanking them onto his bed. The bed can’t hold their sudden weight and they bounce, but he holds onto Arthur tightly so they don’t separate and quickly begins to divest him of his clothes.

“You’re going to ask how I want it?”

Merlin kisses Arthur to shut him up, and his client obliges, holding his face in his hands, one thumb caressing his cheek as the other follows the rim of an ear. Shortly after, Merlin’s clothes are coming off as they break from the kissing. He feels like he’s being worshipped, as tongue and teeth make trails over his body. 

“Stop,” he pleads, finding every nip to be a spark on a shortening fuse.

“Why?”

Merlin whines.

“I bet none of your other clients do this for you.”

He’s sure his heart pauses, because he knows what Arthur’s trying to do. _Don’t talk about clients_ , Merlin repeats like a mantra. “It’s embarrassing,” is the first reason that comes to mind, and he knows Arthur won't believe it.

“I doubt it,” Arthur responds, looking as though he can read Merlin’s thoughts.

The idea terrifies him, being read so well. It should be the other way around. Merlin nudges at Arthur to continue the action, hoping to distract him from the information he seeks with an inkling of futility. And as Arthur begins to touch and kiss again, Merlin concentrates on the give and take, trading a skimming of lips across his collarbone with a nibble on Arthur’s earlobe. It takes a good while before he notices that Arthur doesn’t make an attempt to enter him, contenting himself with the rocking of his erection against Merlin’s thigh. 

He makes the annoying realization that he’s being treated like a fragile doll, and the comparison makes him wince, the thought much too close to another regular’s preferences.

Arthur is being exceedingly gentle, and Merlin wants to bite him in retaliation, hopefully to bring them back to a comfortable point of banter. He lets Arthur continue as he wants, all the way up to a blanket of white-haze covering his mind and eyes, then slowly descending with Arthur from their climax. The pleasure is intense; more than he'd thought it could be with just the touch of hands.

“You know these sheets almost match the colour of your eyes.”

They are catching their breath when Arthur suddenly says that nonsense, and Merlin looks at Arthur like he’s lost his mind. “That could almost pass for poetic.”

“Does Tauren wax poetic verses to you? What did he have to say about your injuries?” Merlin never doubts Arthur’s tenacity, like a rabid dog with a bone.

“Couldn’t say.” He turns away, putting his back to Arthur. That doesn’t dissuade him in the slightest, as he rolls along with Merlin and traps him under his weight and arms. He struggles without much effort, not wanting to give away his worry. “Maybe you know more than me.”

“Maybe I do.” Arthur continues to scrutinize him, and Merlin feels that anything he does, from a blink of an eye to a twitch of lip, will give answers to Arthur’s questions.

“Why do you bother?”

“You’re an employee of my father’s business. I should worry about my investments.”

“Is that what you’re doing here with me?”

“Apparently I technically shouldn’t. But, if a high-ranking member from another Syndicate can, I don’t see why I can’t find out what all the fuss is about.”

“Sounds like you already know a lot.” At the back of his mind Gaius’s warning rings, and something inside him cowers in fear at the idea of the Pendragon Syndicate’s boss knowing about him.

“People say I should listen more to other’s opinions.” Merlin curses himself, knowing it’s something he'd probably said during one of their lengthy banters. “So Merlin,” Arthur continues, “what does Tauren like?”

“You want to know how other people fuck me?”

“If that’s what you’re comfortable with.” Arthur releases him, moving to lie back with his hands resting under his head. “Either way, as your client, you have to please me.”

Arthur’s giving him a way out, as bent out of shape as it is to be aligning it with the number of rules and etiquette that the Avalon and common sense have. It surprises him more that he’s seriously contemplating it. His relation with Arthur is already verging upon a line he feels he may have jumped across long ago.

Hedging, Merlin says, “You don’t have to worry about Tauren.”

“He hasn’t been banned.”

“He’s still getting punished.”

“I hardly consider a fine a punishment.”

Merlin shrugs. There’s nothing he can say against that. “I’ve had worse.” At the look Arthur gives him, Merlin quickly adds, “Not here. The most that happens here are the usual kinks, some weird ones. Everyone’s a little rough at times.” He gives Arthur a pointed look, which he takes offence to.

“I didn’t injure you—“

“I don’t know, those bruises could be considered—“

“You know what I mean.” Arthur cuffs him with a pillow, which leaves Merlin frozen in bafflement. Arthur doesn’t give him time to respond, prodding him. “So are there certain things each one likes?”

“You just hit me with a pillow!”

“I highly doubt it’ll bruise.”

Merlin glares at Arthur, tempted to keep the pillow under his head out of reach. “You seriously want me to talk about what I do with other clients?” he grumbles.

Arthur’s smile is razor sharp. “Think of it like a kink. For example,” Arthur looks at the faint rope marks on his wrist and ankles, “someone obviously likes to tie you up.”

Of all the possible responses, Merlin _blushes_. He drops a name, hoping Arthur will focus on that instead. “Valiant.”

“Figures.”

His blush is replaced by curiosity. “You know him?”

“If they have any affiliations with Syndicate activities then yeah, probably. Though, if they know of this place, they’ll have affiliations.” Arthur brings Merlin wrist closer to his eyes. “Let me guess what Valiant’s like?”

From his tone of voice, Merlin knows that this will become a game between them, and he has to admit an eagerness to play with Arthur’s competitive nature. He describes what Valiant likes to do, and he spends the next while tied to the bed in a similar fashion, Arthur successfully showing Merlin how much better it could feel.

It’s almost tantamount to an addiction. He reveals bits of information about his clients and their kinks, and in return learns about their lives outside of his room and receives Arthur’s explicit attention.

He talks about Simmons’s odd occasional request for him to act like a purring kitten, fawning attention over the closeted old man. When Arthur talks about his client, Merlin can’t imagine Simmons as a large business mogul, married to a shrewd, bitter wife. He also can't imagine the sweet and kind Freya as a mafia princess, quite capable with a gun.

Merlin avoids broaching the subject of Tauren, who has only now been allowed to schedule appointments with him again, though there’s been a shift in how he treats him. Merlin knows it’s not from guilt. It looks as though Tauren is planning something every time he thinks Merlin’s not looking, and he fears he has an idea what it is.

So when Tauren asks about Arthur, Merlin tilts his head to the side and asks, “Who?”

“I heard Arthur Pendragon is a client of yours.”

Merlin’s not sure how good of a liar he is, but Tauren sounds much too sure of his facts. He crawls into Tauren’s lap, wrapping his arms around his client’s neck. “You really want to talk about someone else?”

“So he is.”

“Do you want him to be my client?” Merlin laughs, cuddling into Tauren’s arms. “Show me how much better you are than Mr. Pendragon.” He punctuates it with a gentle rocking of his hips. It gets Tauren’s attention, allowing Merlin to breathe easy, having successfully diverted his client’s attention for a short amount of time.

It won’t last, because Tauren’s rivalry with the Pendragon Syndicate is a constant topic that comes up at almost every appointment. He’s obsessed with bringing them down, and Merlin has to be careful. It’s bad enough that Arthur knows about Tauren. 

They could kill each other.

 _What am I doing_ , Merlin asks himself, saying goodbye to Tauren at the end of another session, another awkward attempt to pass off his questions about the Pendragon heir. At least Arthur had stopped asking about Tauren after a length of time since the incident. Still, there’s a thickening panic whenever their appointments come too close after each other.

 

Sometimes he believes his association with Arthur is going to end in disaster, every rumour like a cautionary tale of a dangerous man following in the footsteps of his father. He’s only heard stories about Uther Pendragon, but Merlin had _seen_ the ruthlessness beneath Arthur's cold handsome exterior on their first appointment. Despite that, he’s gone beyond his role as the Avalon’s resident, and his strange attachment to Arthur is hard to define. Gaius’s visit a few months back hadn’t helped, adding his warning to the list of things he has to ponder and worry over. Like his family: a mother he could barely remember, and a father that might not even be related.

Thoughts of a potential fallout begin to scare him, and he doesn’t realize it’s affecting him until Arthur pulls back from a make-out session with a glare.

“Something displeasing you Merlin?”

“Nothing,” he says, adding a sweet smile. It’s not even a second later before Merlin knows it had been the wrong thing to do.

Arthur glares even more. “Am I boring you?”

“No.” It’s probably the most polite ‘no’ he’s ever given Arthur, even when he'd been trying to dutifully fulfill his role without knowing what Arthur had wanted. The air between them goes stale and dead. Merlin must look like prey frozen beneath a predator’s gaze. He’s falling back on familiar patterns, all the wrong things to do and say. This isn’t who he is but though he’s revelled in the freedom, there’s a whisper in his mind that getting closer to Arthur might not be for the best.

Without a word, Arthur gets off the couch and fiddles with his phone, a fuming aura behind him as he punches the keys. 

The Avalon’s training dictates that Merlin should comfort him, but he usually throws a sarcastic quip at Arthur to try and mollify him. He’s too conflicted to do anything now, and too nervous to move.

“Would you like a drink?” he offers. The hands on the mobile tighten.

“Would you like some food?” He tries, and the phone is quickly dropped to the floor as Arthur rushes him.

Arthur’s definitely angry, but not as furious when Merlin had hid his gun. He can tell, because this time Arthur wears his emotions on his face. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with _you_?” He’s surprised by the anger in his voice, but he doesn’t appreciate being tackled on the couch like the street dealers selling on Syndicate boundaries. Once it’s out, the rest seems to easily flow, all the nervous energy releasing into shouts.

If Arthur is shocked by Merlin’s display, he keeps it hidden or truly doesn’t care. Instead, a fire lights in his eyes. “I didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“I know!”

“Then what’s with the sweet act?” 

“I don’t know!” 

They’re breathing as though they’ve run a marathon, and both realize the need to step away from each other in order to talk rationally. Arthur takes a seat at Merlin’s bed, waiting for him to speak first.

Merlin snorts at that, seeing how Arthur _has_ to dictate who is the first to talk. Yet truthfully, Merlin wants to start first. There are a number of things he can begin with, and most he feels he can’t say. So he begins with the one question that presses to be asked again. “You’ve killed people, right?”

The look Arthur gives him is familiar. The complete wonderment that Merlin can say something he finds completely inane. “Didn’t you already ask that?”

“Yeah,” Merlin shrugs, “I’m asking again.”

“What’s the point of it?” 

“What was it like?” His palms sweat, and his heart pounds.

Arthur takes careful stock of him, as though Merlin’s reason could be written on his face. “Is that really what you want to ask?” 

His chest begins to feel tight. “I need to go to the bathroom.” Merlin always says that when he needs a breather with a client, but he’s never needed to use it on Arthur before. He doesn’t bother waiting for with Arthur’s response to the abrupt cut in the conversation, though later he’ll realize Arthur actually didn’t say a word. 

Merlin doesn’t think he ever reacted like this to a client, feeling as though he’s stumbling once the bathroom door is closed, quickly turning on the tap to splash cold water on his face. That wasn’t what he'd wanted to ask. 

Or maybe it was. 

Merlin looks at his drenched face. While he doesn’t look tired, he can feel a haggardness masking his skin, feeling heavy and thick. It doesn’t clog his lungs or throat, but the weight that spreads down to his shoulders is uncomfortable to bear. 

He tries to wipe the feeling away, rubbing at his face and neck, uncaring of how his shirt collects the water.

What does he really want from Arthur? The worst part about the question is that he’s expecting Pendragon to have the answers, because surely he is the best person to ask. That’s what Merlin feels, even if he doesn’t want to know what the instinct is behind it.

Maybe he's getting too close?

The weight finally leaves to his relief, though he’ll need a new shirt. It probably won’t be very necessary.

“What is this?” he hears, after exiting the bathroom.

Merlin looks around the room, Arthur nowhere in sight. There’s a light coming from his closet and he heads towards it, ready to chastise Arthur for looking through his things. Yet when he sees what Arthur is holding, he panics. “Don’t.”

The red satin robe Arthur inspects looks smooth and sleek under the closet’s light. “This from a boyfriend,” Arthur jokes, his fingers smooth along the black accent trimmings and the faded floral patterns painted on the robe long ago.

Merlin rushes to take it out of Arthur hands, walking away to find a suitable hiding place. He folds it gently and places it in the drawer of the nightstand.

“It must be really important.”

It’s the first time Arthur has ever displayed jealousy. Even when Merlin’s spoken of other client’s preferences, that dark look has never crossed his face. He can only roll his eyes. “It’s for another client.”

“You had no problem telling me about the others.”

“Edwin’s different.” At Arthur’s inquiring look, Merlin adds, “Not like that.” His mouth gapes open and closes, trying to find a way to describe his most unusual client. Gesturing to the robe inside the nightstand, he says, “Edwin’s tastes are…unique.”

“You mean weird.” Arthur gently pushes him aside and pulls out the robe. He holds it out, inspecting it once again. “What does he do?”

Merlin shuffles where he stands, uneager to talk about Edwin’s preferences, or the man himself.

“Does he make you wear this?”

“What else would I do with a robe,” Merlin chastises.

“So what is it that he does that’s making you act so weird?” Arthur turns around and holds the robe up against Merlin, imagining the way it will look.

His shuffling increases. “It’s weird.”

“Weirder than making you purr like a kitten, or pretending you’re their wife.”

Not really. At least Merlin doesn’t think so. But with Edwin, his preferences seem intimately attached to whatever illusion the man has. For this client, it almost appears as a _need_.

“It’s too private.”

“Any fantasy is private, Merlin.”

He finds he can’t scrape up an argument against that. “Well…” he tries anyway, hoping the words will leap from his mouth on their own. But Merlin has been breaking the privacy rule for four months with Arthur, and Edwin’s preferences are no stranger than the others.

“He likes dolls,” Merlin starts, feeling unease bubble in the pit of his stomach. “So I wear that to make the image.”

Arthur frowns at the robe before holding it up against Merlin again, stretching it from shoulder to shoulder to properly see how it might look.

Merlin huffs at Arthur, and grabs the robe from him. With deft efficiency, he quickly divests himself of his clothing so the only attire he’s wearing is the robe. It’s cold against his skin. 

“And this makes you look like a doll.” 

“There’s more to it,” Merlin explains, seeing Arthur’s doubt, “like make-up to pale my skin.”

“You’re already pale as it is,” Arthur comments, a habitual insult he throws at him. “What exactly does he do? Offer you tea?”

“I don’t do anything,” he says with a shrug.

“You dress up and you do absolutely nothing.”

Merlin shrugs again. He never understood the fantasy but it pleased Edwin, which works well for him.

“So you’re basically a sex doll…a very dressed up, expensive sex doll.” Arthur looks at him with interest, and Merlin quickly sets to crushing his idea. If Edwin finds out—Merlin doesn’t know why, but there’s something about Edwin that always made him follow his client’s instructions to the tee.

“Act like a doll. Don’t make a sound; don’t move; try not to breathe too deeply. Lie there and I’ll do what I want,” he remembers Edwin saying melodically, too focused on how the ensemble looked to notice the surprise Merlin had failed to hide.

Edwin is Merlin's easiest client in comparison, though the act of sex is hard when you’re not allowed to move or breathe.

He explains this to Arthur, who still reaches out to him. “No.” He takes a step away, working to untie the robe until Arthur wraps an arm around to still his hands.

“Why not? I’m curious.”

Arthur doesn’t sound miffed, only amused.

“Edwin’s different,” he struggles for the next thing to say. “He takes this seriously.”

“Fantasies are a game. How does he take this seriously?”

Merlin can’t answer when he doesn’t know how to explain it to himself, but he does realize that Arthur isn't thinking about Merlin’s behaviour earlier, and he’ll take whatever he can get to keep Arthur distracted. He can feel himself physically deflate from trying to argue. 

“I want to see what it’s like.” Arthur slips a hand under the robe, scratching the trail of pubic hair to the base of his flaccid member.

His breath hitches and he works to stay still in defiance, rather than follow the rules of the fantasy. “I doubt you’ll find it arousing.”

Merlin gasps as Arthur lifts him up in his arms bridal style, the satin material easily letting the warmth of Arthur’s body connect to his own. Arthur eagerly places Merlin onto the bed and straddles him. “Just lie there and try not to make a sound,” he whispers, adding a wink.

Merlin snorts at that, and receives a pinch. “Ow,” Merlin exclaims, indignant about the unnecessary punishment.

“Shut up, will you?” Arthur’s chuckling as he says it, eyes bright with mirth.

He lies back down and purposely looks bored at Arthur, who’s still laughing as he unties the robes and reveals his body underneath. The laughter is infectious though, and soon neither of them can stifle it. Arthur drops down on his stomach beside him, laughing into his ear. When their mirth dies down, a kiss is placed on his mouth, and he can see the affection in Arthur’s eyes. 

It causes elation and fear.

Arthur sits back up, continuing where he'd left off, caressing Merlin’s pale skin lovingly. Merlin doesn’t move, but not because of the fantasy. The adoring worship of each kiss is fascinating, and he wants to remember as though he’ll forget. He doesn’t want to break the moment by talking. He’s even afraid his own breathing could disrupt this.

Eventually, Arthur’s head goes lower past his rigid member to his entrance. His legs have been moved apart so Arthur has room to work. The hot breath warms the skin and a wet tongue makes its way along the cleft of his arse. Merlin works on keeping his breathing calm, his chest rising to the highest point before deflating back down. Arthur's wet tongue makes circles around, dipping in ever so slightly.

He's forgotten that he’s still wearing the robe, and he wants to take it off otherwise it might get dirty. Edwin always made sure it didn’t. But too soon, Arthur’s tongue breaches him. Pulling out to lave around, before going deep as it can go again.

Merlin looks down at his turgid erection, a painful looking red, spilling with cum at the head. He watches as a spurt of it slides down his member, the tongue flicking in and out of him, circling around enough to make him dizzy. He knows to stay quiet, regardless of what Arthur says, and doesn’t make a sound when Arthur pulls back, wiping his mouth with his arm. 

He takes stock of Merlin, quietly panting, limbs loose. He reaches down to cup the soft sac of his balls, rolling them in his hands, carefully watching Merlin. For the next while he doesn’t do anything else. 

Each little pleasure that it gives add to a filling pressure. The muscles of his groin quake and twitch. He’s so lost that he doesn’t even realize that Arthur had stepped away to get a condom, until a girth stretches him for its full length. A sigh escapes him. He hadn't even been trying to stay still, but he doesn’t move to rock his hips or pump his arousal. 

Arthur rocks at a moderate pace, in no rush to completion and with no desire to tease. Merlin legs are hiked up so they’re resting upon Arthur’s shoulder, and every so often Arthur places a kiss to his leg, or slips a finger beside his own member. The best way Merlin can describe it is _comfortable_ , despite the slowly increasing need to come. 

As he thinks that, Arthur shivers. He arches his back as he comes, breathing strained as he makes little rolls of his hips. Merlin looks at Arthur, silently pleading for him to bring him off. Arthur smiles at him before bending down to take Merlin into his mouth.

The yelp Merlin gives from the sudden sensation shatters the silence. He whimpers as the hot warmth of Arthur’s mouth encases his cock fully, and then pulls up to allow the room’s cold air to temper the heat. It doesn’t take very long to reach his climax, struggling with the hands that hold down his hips.

Two fingers tease his entrance as Merlin tries to collect himself. He looks down at Arthur, and instantly sits up, noticing the come on the front of the robe. “Shit, Arthur!” 

“What?” There’s a moment of panic before he realizes what Merlin’s shouting about. “It’s only a little bit of spunk.”

“Only?”

“I wasn’t aware he was so important. Does he visit often?” 

“About every month. Always on the same day.” Merlin rubs at the come, but only manages to smear the wet spot. “Shit!”

“Just wash it off.”

“That’s not—Edwin’s a regular, he’ll notice if there’s something wrong with the robe.” Merlin rushes to the bathroom, hoping to remove the come from the satin material.

“You’re being absolutely paranoid. Why do I bother with you?”

“If you'd rather not, maybe you should just listen to your father and not sample the products,” Merlin shouts from the bathroom.

Arthur rolls his eyes at Merlin.

 

But strangely enough, Arthur schedules even less time with him in the following weeks, and he shouldn’t be feeling disappointed, but it does crush him a bit. That revelation truly annoys him. He can’t have gotten so attached to Arthur that he truly depends upon the Syndicate heir’s companionship. Add in the details that he’s a prostitute in a Pendragon establishment and that Arthur’s father wants his family dead, and it turns into a bad joke. 

“Is something going on?”

Arthur’s head is somewhere else. For the past two hours they had done nothing but eat and drink while Arthur worked from his phone. “What?” He absentmindedly looks over at Merlin before registering the question. “I just received some information and I have to look into it.”

He goes back to working on his phone and Merlin wonders if he’ll get caught if he tries to sneak a peek. He tries, but ends up catching Arthur’s attention, getting eyed with suspicion. 

At least, he thinks its suspicion. Merlin knows something is wrong, like it had been when Arthur had been using his room as a hideout before the murder trial. Yet with Arthur looking his way like that, he’s beginning to feel he’s involved somehow and not in a good way.

It isn’t until Arthur cancels an appointment that his doubt starts to take hold. He’d gotten used to being stuck in this room, but now what had become a home is a trap again. Merlin continuously tells himself the stupidity of his thoughts, because there’s no way Arthur would subtly make his way around a problem. His client had always met things head-on. He even went to his murder trial with perfect ease—or so Merlin's heard, though he can believe it. 

 

“Been busy with your father ordering you around?” Merlin jokes as Arthur walks in. He’s no longer bothering to wait at the door like he should with clients, but is instead in the bathroom trying to wash blood from a shirt the previous client had ruined with a sudden nosebleed.

Merlin doesn’t get an answer in reply, and he sticks his head out to see Arthur examining the wet bar, running his hands beneath the edge of the top with careful consideration.

“What are you doing?”

Arthur doesn’t turn around when he says, “This is good workmanship.”

Merlin knows Arthur’s excuse is absolute bullshit. He pretends to sleep after sex, hoping to catch Arthur at it again. Merlin slows his breathing, loosening muscles, despite the tension he feels. He catches Arthur getting up and rifling through his closet, which turns his doubt to fear. He sniffles, slowly ‘waking up’ from a nap.

“Seems I wore you out.” Quicker than he can blink, Arthur’s by his side in a snap with a smirk. Merlin hadn’t even heard him move.

“Hmm, well I was hoping to wake up to something better.”

Arthur kisses him, but suspicion roars like a bonfire.

Whenever Merlin needs comfort he pulls out his mother’s pendant. He can imagine the warmth of her holding him, and doesn’t care if he's just making it up. But after Arthur leaves, even with no other clients to contend to, he’s too paranoid to pull the pendant out.

He so worried he almost forgets to double check the robe before Edwin’s appointment the next day. He arrives as punctually as ever. At times, Merlin’s tempted to borrow a client’s watch to see if he’s even on time by the second. But instead Merlin’s always lying dutifully on the bed, robe wrapped around him, skin pale, waiting for Edwin to play with his favourite doll.

He hears the quiet padding of Edwin moving about at the door before he closes it, but doesn’t react to any of it, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. Soon the bed dips and Edwin’s face comes into view smiling serenely at him. A hand cups his cheek before leaning down to Merlin’s unresponsive lips. 

Edwin groans his satisfaction.

Merlin notices Edwin is being especially slow today, opening the robe, trailing his hand down his skin, then drawing it over his body, smoothing down the fabric so it lays perfectly against Merlin like a display. Despite the pace, it’s Edwin’s usual routine before he undresses and begins methodically wetting Merlin's entrance, positioning his knees up with his feet on the bed.

Every so often Edwin whispers, “Beautiful.” Merlin can feel his client watching him, so he makes extra care not to move. He even tries not to blink. Thankfully, there isn’t a mark on the robe from when he shouldn’t have slept with Arthur in it, and it's been ironed of all its creases. The crinkle of the condom wrapper brings him back to the moment, as Edwin rolls it on himself, breathless in anticipation.

The first thrust in is always the loudest, as though the sensation is pure rapture for Edwin. “Why are you so beautiful?” Edwin says, one hand cupping his face gently, while the other positions his hips to the correct angle.

“So gorgeous.” The litany of compliments continues, as Edwin drives his hips forward. Merlin’s numb to it, used to the very strict routine Edwin follows. Except he’s noticing slight changes, like the increasing strength of Edwin's hold. It’s nowhere near painful, not even rough, but he’s wondering if he should do something even though he’s not supposed to move. 

“You were perfect.” The words are a turmoil of grief and anger.

Merlin looks down at Edwin, finding his client wreathed with hate. Their eyes meet and Edwin’s hand shoots out to grind Merlin’s shoulder to the bed.

“Get off!” Merlin says in a hurried whisper, the feeling much too familiar. 

“Why did you let him?” Edwin asks him tonelessly, like he’s always expected this.

There's the sensation of fingers stretching up to his neck and something grows inside of Merlin’s chest, trying to tear out his throat.

It sticks when Merlin looks back at Edwin, somehow seeing two people on top of him. Suddenly, he realizes the reason he can’t scream is because there’s a hand on his throat. One of Edwin’s hands is still holding his hips down while he continues thrusting. And it’s not his imagination that the cock driving into him stiffens, or that there is elation in Edwin’s eyes.

There’s a shriek in Merlin’s head as his throat is squeezed tighter. He tries to scramble away but he can’t get free. Merlin looks around him and spots the lamp on the nightstand. It’s the only thing within reach and his hand shoots out to grab it. The lamp fumbles in his grasp and he’s too slow. When Merlin whips his arm around to smash Edwin with the lamp, his client is quick to bring up an arm to protect his head. It bounces off to the side out of reach and Edwin becomes furious at Merlin.

Two hands clamp down on his throat. Edwin is still hard inside him. Tears form at the corner of his eyes as Merlin tries to pull in breath. His legs kick out from beneath Edwin’s weight, and his hands try to smack and scratch the arms pressing him down. On instinct Merlin breathes out but can’t suck air back in. There’s a roaring in his ears as a pressure develops up in his head.

 _Help_ , he mouths to no one as his finger twitches, needing the weight in his hand that had saved him once before. 

_Arthur_ , comes up next, thinking that the one person he wants to save him would have to be the Pendragon Syndicate’s executioner.

Tears are pouring down his face and the heat of blood rushing to his head makes him dizzy. The one thing Merlin wants most is to hold the pendant in his hand.

Merlin barely hears the door breaking down. Nor does he feel the hands taken away as the Avalon’s security pries Edwin off of him. He’s not sure if he’s really breathing—the tears don’t stop and his throat constricts with a weird prickle as he sobs.

The medics come in to inspect him and Merlin finally screams.

  
 **  
******

**PART 3**

 ****

He squeezes the pendant so the shape will imprint into his palm, imagining the small object digging under his skin. The leather sofa has probably molded to the shape of his body. It’s the first time he’s ever laid down on this piece furniture for so long. 

When Merlin closes his eyes, the darkness behind them is still tainted with the red of the room. He thinks of blood, a slow blossoming on a shirt as it feeds off death. Sometimes he can feel phantom hands clamping down on his throat, or Edwin getting off on his struggle. He can always feel the weight of the lamp in his hand, and the twitch of his finger.

The memories choke him and the emotions that bubble within rock him to nausea. When he feels the presence of another in the room, his body itches to vault over the sofa and hide beneath. If he isn’t skinny enough to fit, he’ll make himself squeeze in.

“Merlin,” Arthur announces, pacifying his desire to run.

He doesn’t say anything in return and Arthur doesn’t mind, taking a seat by his feet. Merlin expects Arthur to say something else, but maybe the Syndicate heir has run out of words. 

He wishes this wasn’t the time. The silence is deafening, too much like being alone. And he doesn’t like being alone with his demons.

“I heard gunshots,” Merlin stutters, voice raspy from the bruises on his throat. He hadn't known what had happened afterwards when Edwin was pulled off, but he'd been told by worried residents. “I mean other people heard gunshots. They told me there were gunshots.” 

He clamps down on his mouth to shut his chatter, seeing Arthur giving him a raised eyebrow at the repetition. Merlin can feel tinges of embarrassment, but for some reason he needs to tell Arthur what had happened--his side of the story.

Everyone tells him a lot of things, calling to check in after hearing about the incident. Some voice their support while trying not to be invasive, and others carefully try to satisfy an instinctual curiosity. Nonetheless, they all call in because no one has ever tried to murder one of their own in the Avalon. 

It’s plain insanity. Merlin can see now that Edwin had echoed cavernously with it. 

It had taken a while for the medics to calm him down, with the broken remnants of the bedside lamp shattered to pieces in a waste basket. He should have asked for the last bits of garbage to be taken out, but Merlin hadn’t had the desire to toss it, unlike the bed sheets that had also been shorn to pieces by his hands.

He makes sure to look at Arthur to begin his story.

The discomforting tickle that had been bubbling in his throat had ripped out when the medics had come near. It had careened on into a scream of rage from a fury Merlin hadn’t known was inside him. He'd begun ripping into the sheets, tossing the pillows, and throwing the second lamp at the nearest medic. The man had luckily moved out of the way, or Merlin would probably have had to explain to Cedric later why he’d injured other members of his staff.

When Cedric had come by later, Merlin had been almost unable to recognize him. He'd never thought he’d see the man’s pale pasty skin go whiter and more sickly, hands shaking, with prickles of sweat beading on his brow when he'd tried to question Merlin about the events with unsteady nerves. Cedric had stumbled on words and stalled, and making Merlin wonder who had really been worst off at that moment. 

Now, Arthur snorts at Merlin's description of Cedric, and Merlin has the sudden epiphany of why the manager had appeared and acted the way he did. Cedric would have been with Arthur, where the security had taken Edwin into the manager’s office. Arthur would have done it there.

A shiver goes up his spine, and Merlin will have to internally search for the cause of it, but Arthur is prompting him to continue with his retelling.

So Merlin does, describing how Cedric had tried to regain ground, asking a stream of jumbled questions which Merlin hadn't been able to get his thoughts around to answer. It’s probably why he'd dished it all out at Gwen when she'd come striding into the room.

“I'd never met Gwen before,” Merlin says with reverence, reliving the memory of her charging in, and her cry of distress when she'd seen him. At first he hadn’t put it together, an unfamiliar face acting like a worried friend. Merlin had jumped back in fear of the unusual woman wanting to hold and comfort him.

“I recognized her by her voice,” he says to Arthur with glee. 

When Merlin had backed away, Gwen had realized her mistake. She'd taken a step back, putting her hands up to make a calming motion.

“I’m sorry. I should have known you wouldn’t want…” she'd trailed off.

She'd said something further but Merlin hadn't listed, instead entranced by the phone operator in front of him. Never once had he ever put a face to the voice of the woman who had always talked to them kindly and sweetly, despite their particular business environment. 

But now he could. Now whenever he called the operator, he would be able to see the mocha skin, curly black hair, and the face as kind as her voice.

“I’m sure I went to her first. I think I cried, I’m not really sure,” Merlin says. He thinks he remembers the feel of wet streaks down his face. The most important thing had been the warmth of Gwen’s hold and the hand rubbing at his back, like how a mother would comfort her child. It’s a fitting analogy for Gwen, who takes care of all the residents at her desk, mastering the switchboard.

“What are you doing here?” Cedric had cut in. “You’re supposed to be manning the phone lines.”

“I’m here to check on Merlin. I heard—“

Merlin had looked between the both of them as Gwen had halted her words, like they were literally stuck in her throat. Cedric and Gwen had looked away at the same time, opting not to say anything.

“I wanted to make sure Merlin was okay,” Gwen had continued.

Cedric had given off an almost manic despairing laugh. “Of course he isn’t okay. A client tried to kill him, and a Pendragon had to come in personally to…solve things.” Cedric had wheezed out in panic, becoming more reedy with each word. “I need you back in your place!”

Gwen had turned to stare him down, saying, “I’m going to stay here for a bit with Merlin.”

“No! You need to be at the lines!”

“If you want someone working at the lines so much, you do it,” she'd commanded, “instead of standing there yelling at me and being completely useless.”

Merlin chuckles, looking at Arthur’s matching smile. But it quickly wanes, and he sadly adds, “Gwen’s going to get fired because of me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Arthur says with a knowing look. “Do you remember one of my men I told you about, Lancelot? He and Gwen have been an item for a few years now.”

“Really?”

“My men have accompanied me here a few times. It seems they meet then. Cedric can’t fire her.”

“Because you say so?” he asks, wanting a solid affirmation.

“Because I say so.”

“Okay.” Merlin is quietly pleased, happy knowing Gwen hadn’t cost herself a job because of him, while Arthur nods, confirming a silent promise.

“And what have you been doing these past few weeks?” Arthur asks, pulling Merlin back to the present. He chooses to stay silent rather than describing the lethargic way he's been going about eating, pondering, and sleeping on the sofa. 

There’s a sudden shift of weight on the bed, and Merlin doesn’t move as Arthur leans closer to him to run a hand through his hair. This close he can smell the gunpowder on his fingers and thinks of Cedric’s sickly look, spouting about a Pendragon solving the problem. He’s curious about the specifics of Arthur’s involvement.

“People are saying a lot of things about you,” Merlin starts off, hoping Arthur will bite without much struggle.

“Like what?”

“Some people think it was you who saved me,” Merlin looks at Arthur, “or that you sent Edwin to kill me.” Laughs trickle from both of them at the latter rumour, despite the morbidity. Merlin finds himself backpedaling, wondering if he really did need to know what Arthur had done.

“I know that last one would never happen,” he says with a mixture of guilt and something else—something that makes Merlin’s heart beat faster. He shies away from his curiosity about it, and the only thing he has left to say is a heartfelt, “thank you.” 

Arthur doesn’t say anything in response, but leans down to place a kiss on the top of his head. Merlin doesn’t mean to flinch but he curls in on himself either way, and it makes him feel even more guilty to fear his saviour.

“Don’t worry about it,” Arthur says, again somehow omniscient to his thoughts. Hands run down the length of his body in what’s meant to be a comforting gesture, but all Merlin can feel is the lingering bruises around his neck. He doesn’t think it’s his imagination. Despite his discomfort, he lets Arthur do what he wants.

“What’s that you’re holding?” Arthur asks.

“What?” Merlin looks at him in confusion.

“In your hand?” 

He looks down at his clenched fist, surprised that he had forgotten about the pendant and hadn’t hid it away.

Gaius had said not to let Arthur know, with warnings about Uther’s unending wrath being the strongest point of reason. At times he wonders if Arthur would report to his father if he knew about Merlin's family history. Merlin can’t see a reason for him not to. Much like a king, a Syndicate leader’s word is law, and Merlin knows Arthur follows his father’s word with the barrel of his gun. Even the gun had been ordained by his father, given to Arthur at a young age. 

Yet Arthur hadn’t had to save him from Edwin. A prostitute from the streets satisfying his carnal pleasures doesn’t receive that sort of kindness.

He’s aware of dissatisfaction from Syndicate members that Arthur chooses to spend his free time with him, even if the Avalon is considered neutral grounds. And now Arthur had killed someone at the brothel. Even if people learn that the victim had been a serial killer preying at the different brothels in the city, there had been a breach in the unspoken contract made between the criminal organizations.

Arthur had breached that to save him, and in the end Merlin owes Arthur. He’s already given his body, as well as his heart, he can willfully admit. His family is all he has left.

“It’s my mother’s.” He opens the palm of his hand, showing him the small pendant almost indented into his skin.

“Your mother,” Arthur repeats, with clear interest and a profoundly wistful tone that garners Merlin’s attention.

There’s a pain in his face that Merlin’s never seen Arthur wear before, nothing like injuries from a shoot-out or a bar brawl.

“Yeah,” Merlin puts his hands forward so Arthur can see, “it was given to me when I got here.”

“Who gave it to you?”

Even though Merlin is willing to tell Arthur about himself, he can’t risk Gaius. “Someone,” he said with as much finality as he can.

Arthur doesn’t press the question, only nods as though it’s an acceptable response. “What do you know about her?”

“Honestly, I don’t remember much. Only feelings.”

“Describe them to me.”

“Warm,” Merlin struggles to say, starting and stopping for a minute before finding one word. He racks his brain for more, but dishearteningly he can’t think of anything else. The only feeling left is his yearning for it, yearning for something more even than Gwen had provided those weeks ago.

His eyes begin to sting, his body hiccupping as he tries to withhold whimpers, and without warning he breaks. “I want my mom.” 

He laughs at the ridiculousness of the statement. It sounds absurd. He’s in his twenties and has lived on the streets with other degenerates like himself for most of his life. 

But he needs her now.

When Merlin turns to Arthur, he looks lost, which makes him laugh even more, because Arthur looks exactly how he feels.

“I feel stupid for saying that,” Merlin admits.

“You don’t have to.” Again, Arthur sounds so wistful that Merlin thinks Arthur does understand, even if he doesn’t know what to do about it.

Merlin takes the next few moments to calm himself down with Arthur’s hand resting in his hair, playing with a single strand.

“I want to make you exclusive.”

The words cut through Merlin’s despair. “What do you mean?” He sits up and looks at Arthur, trying to see and understand the weight of Pendragon’s words. 

“It means only I’ll get access to you. No one else can buy your time.”

“Can you do that?”

“What can’t I do?” It’s a touch of cockiness that almost makes Merlin roll his eyes, but Arthur’s seriousness makes him carefully think over the offer.

An offer to shelter him within the Avalon as Arthur's, personally—what would that make Merlin? If he isn’t making money for the Avalon providing for various customers as a resident, then what is his purpose here? There's one term from the streets that he could apply to himself if he took Arthur’s offer: a kept boy.

The words rankle against his will. He's never liked the idea of it, to be kept in a nice cosy apartment waiting for a single person to come by and play whenever they get bored. You have to pray that they don’t get bored of you, or that their spouse doesn’t find out. But thinking of it from that perspective, it’s not too different from his life now. Maybe he just doesn’t like the idea of catering to and depending upon one person, of placing the entirety of his existence in someone else’s hands. 

Merlin doesn’t doubt Arthur. It’s only a gut feeling, but it weighs down like a rock that Arthur wouldn’t get bored of him, or leave him high and dry. He wouldn’t be here _now_ , checking on him, if he’s going to do that. Arthur’s commitment to his tasks and the people he surrounds himself with are the motives that drive him. 

But if Merlin becomes exclusive to Arthur, what would that make him? A sheltered kept boy with bruises on his neck, hiding from the people he once spread his legs to. He isn’t weak. He can take care of himself, had done it long before living at the Avalon. Maybe the brothel is making him soft, dulling all his street smarts and instincts. Maybe he already is a kept boy. 

It’s probably how Edwin gotten the jump on him. If Merlin had still been hustling on the pavement , he would have instantly said no to a man like Edwin. He would have instantly backed away at the first sign of trouble.

Merlin doesn’t want to be kept safe. He can’t allow himself that when he still owes Arthur his life. Arthur had gone beyond what any client would normally do for him, even the ones who continually make declarations of love during sex. Merlin needs to return the favour.

“I’m sorry, but no.” He imagines that under normal circumstances, he would find Arthur’s astounded look to be hilarious. Instead, he feels almost like he’s rejecting him. 

“Why?”

Merlin moves to sit properly on the sofa. “If I’m going to be exclusive—” he doesn’t want to make this sound like an eye for an eye, “I want to help you in some way.”

“Help me with what?” Arthur quickly cuts in, looking at him curiously, “Merlin, you don’t owe me anything. I’m offering to keep you safe.”

“I’m not weak,” Merlin says lowly, pulling away from Arthur’s hands. He ignores Arthur, creating a space between them.

“I never said you were. But if another incident like Edwin happens—“

“I can take care of myself,” Merlin interjects more loudly, imploring Arthur to listen.

“Really.” While the condescending tone could be taken as their usual banter, it sets him on edge. Merlin grits his teeth, having no problem showing his anger towards Arthur.

“Fuck you. I can take care of myself. I’m not your pet. I don’t rely on you to feed me and house me! I don’t need you to protect me!” Merlin takes a glass of water that had been on the table and throws it at the opposite wall. The shattering of glass does nothing to satisfy him. “I could have taken him. I would have gotten him before…I—” Merlin heaves a cough, his voice going hoarse from the shouting. He notices that he’s sweating like he’s run a mile, and the pinpricks of tears create a film over his eyes because he refuses to let them fall. What he notices most is that Arthur, who hadn’t moved an inch during Merlin’s tirade, is focusing his attention on Merlin's hands.

He can feel one finger twitching uncontrollably, and instantly closes his fist to stop the odd spasm. Merlin doesn’t want to look at Arthur.

“Who was it?” Arthur asks.

“Who?” He feigns ignorance, despite knowing Arthur isn’t fooled.

“The person you killed. Who was he?”

“What makes you say it was a he?” Merlin says, purposely being cheeky.

“Merlin,” Arthur curtly admonishes.

“He was a john that got too rough.”

“Did he choke you?”

Merlin looks at Arthur in surprise. The Pendragon heir is resting his elbows on his knees, giving Merlin all of his attention, and is completely calm despite Merlin’s unusual outburst. 

“Yeah,” Merlin says slowly, “How’d you know?”

Arthur stands up and pats the cushion he was sitting on. “Sit down, tell me what happened.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Merlin is too worn to resist and does as he’s told, resting on the warmed seat. 

“Any way you want. But it’ll be better if you get it off your chest.”

Arthur’s advice doesn’t help. Instead, Merlin finds himself struggling to say anything. One of his legs rapidly bounces up and down and when Arthur speaks, it makes Merlin jump.

“Was it the first time you held a gun?”

It takes a few minutes for the question to register. “No,” he begins, then immediately clarifies, “But I'd never fired one before. Someone just wanted to show off their piece.” He wishes Arthur would stop looking at him, because it makes his skin crawl, ill at ease. Arthur must know he’s ready to bolt, because two strong hands clamp down on his shoulders as the Pendragon sits down on the coffee table across from him. Their knees slot together and Merlin begins to knock on one of them with his own.

“He was choking me, didn’t even realize it at first. The asshole was trying to rip me off of my money, so I got mouthy. Then it was just, bang!” His fist hits the flat of his palm, and the memories and feelings begin coming back. “Right up against the wall.” 

“That what happen?”

“I was able to get away for a bit. Kneed him in the crotch. I don’t know how you Syndicate types fight it out, but you don’t fight clean when you’re working the streets.”

“I know.”

“But then he caught me—“

The force had been like being clipped by a speeding car, sending him flying onto the bed when the john tackled him. The sheets had been wet with sweat, and he'd scrambled to get off and away from the weight on top of him. He'd been flipped to face his attacker, the man spewing spittle as he'd pulled his fist back and landed a punch on Merlin’s face. The pain had exploded in waves across his face, and he'd yelled for help, thinking the john was planning to beat him to death. That’s when hands had wrapped around his throat. 

That feeling of choking is the most visceral thing he remembers, and he'd never liked the sensation of something around his neck afterwards. Even though he has to get used to people touching that area, if someone wraps one hand, no matter how gently, around the curve of his neck, he always panics.

“I was beating his arms with my hands, but I might as well been hitting a wall. I was starting to see these dark spots popping in front of my eyes, and…I just let myself go limp.” The first tear rolls down his face, and he keeps himself turned away as much as possible from Arthur. 

“When I let go, I remember my hand brushing against the gun.” He laughs sardonically. “It was holstered at his hip like some stupid cowboy. I just reacted.”

His hands had been quick to reach for the gun and he'd easily pulled it from the holster. The john had backed off him instantly, hands in the air, looking at his weapon in Merlin’s hand. Merlin hadn't been able to see straight, but he'd had enough strength left in him to raise the gun once more when the john had taken a step towards him.

“Son, how ‘bout you put that down?”

As Arthur knocks back against Merlin’s knees, Merlin laughs madly into his hands, having a fit. The only other contact between them is Arthur's hand on Merlin’s other knee, meant to be comforting.

“You shot him then,” Arthur says, finishing the story.

Merlin nods, finally looking up at Arthur. He doesn’t care if the mucus running down his nose makes him look unpleasant, or if his eyes are bloodshot from crying--he needs the answers only Arthur can give him. “How’d you know?”

“I’ve noticed a few things about you since you pulled a gun on me.”

Merlin thinks back to his very first appointment and his freak out, trying to figure out what Arthur had seen. “When you put your hand around my neck?” Merlin asks Arthur, then adds, “that’s easy.”

Arthur carefully reaches out two fingers, holding them mere millimeters from his neck. There’s a buzz that follows the path the fingers take as they go up, and then back down to rest at his adam apple. “That actually took me a while to get. Took me some time to understand why the hell you freaked out on me.” 

Merlin watches as Arthur leans closer, puffing a warm breath on his neck that makes him shiver with pleasure and curl up on the inside.

“Don’t.” He’s shaking uncontrollably.

“I won’t,” Arthur whispers, quickly placing a kiss on Merlin’s cheek, before backing away. “It’s my gun that I took notice of first. You seemed…at ease with it in your hands.”

“I don’t remember feeling at ease.”

“You weren’t, but I know when someone's used a gun before. Especially when they’ve killed.” Arthur grabs one of Merlin's hands, holding it up between them at face level, and begins to massage his index finger. “You know have a tic? There’s times where this finger here twitches. This is the one you’d use to pull the trigger.”

He is aware of it, though he'd never thought of it as some sort of tell. “What else?”

“The third thing was when you asked me what it was like to kill a person.”

He frowns, realizing how obvious in retrospect. “Oh?” 

“It’s the way you asked it. You looked like you were expecting me to give you some divine answer—tell you how you’re supposed to feel and react.”

“Is it really that easy to see?”

“I know what to look for.”

Merlin supposes Arthur would, surrounded by guns and the Syndicate all his life. Sometimes Merlin had known when someone was giving their goods for the first time, working on his block. There had been an uncertainty in their actions, either too shy or overacting their confidence. While he’s not sure if it’s the same thing, Arthur does know what it’s like to kill someone, and Merlin knows too. 

The worst of it has always been that he doesn’t feel as guilty as he think he should. One reason for that is that Merlin knows that the john would have killed him. He would have choked Merlin till his neck was wrung dry and his purpled face faded out to a deathly pale.

Pulling the trigger had been easy, but running from the memory is hard. He’d played it over in his mind to the point where he'd had to block it out if he wanted to pay the rent. The ease of killing a person had made him nervous holding a gun, but there’s an equally strange sense of power when he remembers holding one in his hands. 

He isn’t a killer; the john’s death hadn’t satisfied him. Yet it had made him feel safe.

Merlin wonders what it’s like for Arthur. Murder is almost part of his business. He'd work and one day inherit a Syndicate, give orders for competition to be eliminated or threatened, and, knowing Arthur, handle things personally if he had to.

Merlin's father had worked for the Pendragon Syndicate too, for Uther. Had his father followed Uther’s orders, like Arthur’s men follow his? If Balinor had been his father, did the ability to kill run in Merlin's blood? 

Asking himself the question is too awkward to comprehend. Merlin doesn’t even know what the man had looked like. He can’t possibly find the answers to those questions. The john's death replays in his mind, and he wonders: if he'd been quicker with the lamp, would the blow to Edwin’s head have killed him?

“Do you think it runs in the family?” At Arthur’s questioning gaze, he reiterates. “Do you thinking it’s easier for certain people to kill?”

“I’m not sure how you want me to answer that.”

“If you don’t know, just say you don’t know.”

Arthur laughs at Merlin’s sudden sassiness.

“I don’t feel guilty. I don’t feel bad about killing him,” Merlin says quietly.

“I know.”

“But I’d rather not do it again.”

Arthur grabs a couple of tissues and wipes at Merlin's runny nose and the tears. When he’s done, Arthur cradles Merlin's face in his hands and examines him, before pulling him in for a kiss. Merlin responds to the warm mouth and wet tongue, moving in tandem with Arthur and pulling him closer so they can be flat against one another. The few minutes that they make out feel like hours, and calm him down, distracted by the feel of Arthur against him.

“Be mine.”

Merlin can only smile at Arthur’s tenacity, because he’s already set on what he wants. “I don’t want to be exclusive, Arthur. I want help you, do something for you. I can’t do it if you keep me to yourself.” 

“I get what you’re saying, but no.”

Of course, Arthur would be stubborn about it. He’ll stamp his feet about it if he has to, but he isn’t going to yield. “You can’t force me.”

“I’m not--” Arthur starts loudly before pausing. He starts again, more calmly, “I’m not here to fight you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To see if you’re okay.”

“Really?” Merlin knows he’s being childish, but having Arthur continue to deny him irks him a little. He can do it. He doesn’t want to be a bird in a cage.

Arthur glares at him. “Fine then. I also wanted to get rid of a few things.”

His heart begins to race as a paranoia sets in. The muscles in his legs tighten, coiled and ready to spring. Arthur won’t hurt him. He repeats it like a mantra in his head. But then Merlin is laden with confusion as Arthur grabs a chair and places it against the wall. He doesn’t understand what Arthur is doing, standing on the chair and skimming his hand along a picture frame. When Arthur steps down, there’s something in his hands. He walks towards Merlin and hands it to him. 

Merlin realizes it’s a small camera. “Edwin,” he says to himself, realizing his former client had been using these to spy on him. So it meant that he seen when Merlin let Arthur fuck him in the robe. No wonder he'd tried to kill him.

“There’s a number of them in this room. Edwin had an intricate surveillance setup.”

“For what?”

“To watch you, I guess,” Arthur says from across the room, searching another picture frame. “Don’t worry they haven’t been active for some time.”

Merlin doesn’t miss the possessive tone, but the tiny camera in his hands captures his attention. “How did you know about them?”

Arthur looks at the camera intensely. “A while ago, my father had given me a head up about someone looking into my business, my history.”

“Edwin?”

Arthur nods. “He had an entire room hidden behind a wall in his closet.”

“You called the guards. Avalon’s security,” Merlin realizes.

“He had his hands around your throat. Of course, I called.” 

Merlin listens to the false bravado, wondering if Arthur is actually going to crush the small camera nestled between his fingers.

He’d been spied on this whole time. He tries to think when Edwin could have planted cameras in his room—it wouldn’t have been difficult. He had never been allowed to move or look around. When their sessions first began, Edwin had sent Merlin to get changed, so he had prepped in his bathroom. It had probably been then. All this time, he'd never known cameras were feeding information to Edwin.

Spying. 

Clients tend to tell him things. They give him a lot of information and he never bothers to remember it, because it has nothing to do with him. But if he can give Arthur something he needs badly enough—the idea begins to formulate. There are a lot of people that would be of use, but Merlin can think of one particular man that might prove to be a threat to Arthur.

“Why don’t you want me helping you?” He doesn’t have to do what Arthur says. He can do this. 

Arthur groans, exasperatingly. “Do you not understand the concept of safe? Do you see this?” He holds up the camera. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Well maybe I want the same thing with you!” Merlin shouts. Arthur looks at him in surprise, like the thought had never crossed his mind. Honestly, it had only crossed Merlin’s. 

“Tauren,” Merlin says, like it’s the key to everything.

“I already know that he’s your client. I’m not getting you to spy on him.”

“And he knows you're my client as well.”

That gets Arthur’s attention. “Has he done anything to you?”

It’s not the response he’s expecting but Merlin rolls with it. “He’s only asked about you.”

He can tell Arthur is figuring it out, reaching a conclusion he finds less than appealing. “Do not play with him Merlin,” Arthur says slowly, to emphasize his warning.

“We just play games. I’m your boy and he plays with me.”

Arthur grits his teeth, and Merlin can see that he wants to cuss him out. “Don’t think games are going to dissuade Tauren. We have a bad history and Tauren’s been out to nail me from the get go.”

“Because you’re Uther Pendragon’s son?”

“Who the fuck knows! He works for a rival. We compete for territory. I’ve messed up his operations, he’s fucked with mine! We’ve taken hits on each other, and I know he’s got a personal vendetta against me, so do not get yourself involved with him!”

Arthur’s like a raging bull in a pen. Merlin’s never seen him like this, and something urges him to find safe cover. But his tenacity to stand against the charge of hoof and horns makes him press on anyway. “He’s my client, I don’t have a choice.”

“You have a choice in whether or not to goad him!” Arthur slams a fist against the wall. “Don’t think your stupid games have him distracted—I know Tauren and he’s just biding his time.”

“He thinks I’m playing a stupid game. I’m his favourite in the Avalon. I’m only a prostitute. What can he possibly suspect?” Merlin argues. “I can get information for you.”

“No! You have no business in this! I want you to stay out!”

“Fine,” he says, but then continues, “just know that being a resident in the Avalon allows me to be a confidante to my clients a lot of the time. I’m sure people have told me things that could be useful.”

“Merlin,” Arthur growls, ready to lash out again, holding back at the last second to speak in a calm, terse manner. “Stick to being a confidante and stay within the Avalon’s rules. I don’t want to babysit you because you feel like being reckless.”

He feels like he’s been backhanded. Arthur telling him to stay within the rules when he’s been encouraging Merlin to break away from them the years they’ve known each other. Against his better judgement, he'd had sex with him wearing Edwin’s robe, and his client had attempted to kill him because of it. Despite being the Pendragon heir, Arthur isn’t his boss and he sure as hell can’t tell Merlin what to do. His resolve sets in stone. “Then I’ll see you whenever I get back to work.”

“What?” 

The sudden change Merlin’s displaying is confusing for Arthur, and Merlin knows it’s because it screams of an odd professionalism he hasn’t exhibited for Arthur for a long time. Merlin does his best to keep his face impassive and polite. “I’m sorry sir, but the Avalon’s rules state that you need an appointment if you want my time.”

Arthur glowers at him, but heads for the door nonetheless. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he says before leaving.

 

He does come back the next day to get rid of the rest of the cameras in Merlin’s room. Neither of them talk about Tauren or Merlin’s suggestions to spy . As Arthur continually comes back to check on him, Merlin can see he’s actively avoiding the topic. He can’t say he wants to bring it up either, still feeling too angry at Arthur. Instead, Merlin contents himself with Arthur’s presence almost constantly by his side, lying down in bed with him until he can eventually sleep in it on his own. It’s easier when he isn’t alone.

 _This is why_ , Merlin thinks, watching the warm body beside him. Despite his anger at Arthur, Merlin doesn’t want to give up. If anything, what Arthur’s doing for him makes him want to do something more.

While he rests, he loses a few clients. Merlin figures it’s due to his long absence, or their knowledge about the incident. He's able to find out that Tauren’s been sating himself with the other residents and has an appointment with Merlin right when he gets back. It’s enough time to consider what he’s going to do, the planning making the down time breeze by until it’s Tauren opening his door.

“Tauren,” he says enthusiastically, showing his regular how much he misses him. He’s been using that tactic to every regular that came back, panting with so much wanton abandon, he even impresses himself with the act. He feels motivated.

“Hmm, what a warm welcome.” The kiss he’s given hurts. “You’ve been gone for five months .”

“I know.” Merlin not sure how well he can fake a smile with Tauren’s hand resting purposely near his neck, but he hopes it’s convincing. He’s aware that everyone wants to test him and make sure he doesn’t lose it.

“You missed me while I was gone,” Merlin flirts, peeking his tongue out across his bottom lip.

Tauren pats his arse, “Show me what I’ve been missing.”

Merlin laughs as he kisses Tauren. “I’ve been bored these months. The company I had to keep.”

“Who? Your manager?” Tauren laughs as though he’s told a hilarious joke.

“Worse,” Merlin leans forward, whispering into Tauren’s ear, “the boss’s son.”

He feels the growing smile against his cheek, and he knows Tauren has taken the bait. Merlin pulls away, giving subtle hints that he should follow him to the bed.

“Really? What’s his name?” Tauren says, playing clueless.

“I can’t tell you that.” Merlin adds a wink.

“Then what’s he like?”

He stretches his body out, tilting his head like he’s thinking. “Handsome,” he pauses for effect, using the opportunity to get Tauren to lay beside him and soothe his frown. “That’s about the only good thing I can say about him.”

“Ah. He’s a brute.”

“You know him?” Merlin sidles closer, pressing kisses to Tauren’s face as his hands wanders under his shirt.

“You could say that. And what was he doing visiting you?”

It doesn’t sound like Tauren is actually probing for information, but it still makes him squirm a little. “I guess he was making sure I was in working order. Maybe for you?”

Tauren laughs darkly. “I doubt that.”

“Not friends then.”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Hmm. Then maybe I it’s alright if I tell you he _is_ a bit of a brute--pushy.” 

“That sounds about right,” Tauren muses.

Merlin inwardly falters, unsure if he’s raising Tauren’s suspicion. He kisses his client to give himself time to think and work it over, wishing he knew how to plan this out better. If everything he says sounds too accurate then Tauren will notice and begin to press him for information, but Tauren’s fantasy also requires him to not undermine it with gross lies. 

He almost reconsiders going through with the task, because he's never had a clue what he’s doing in the first place and has been mostly playing it by ear. But he figures his last sentence could be taken as a repetition of Tauren’s description of Arthur. 

The most difficulty he’s having is the game of the fantasy. The game that he often plays with Tauren takes on a completely different meaning when he’s trying to get Tauren to divulge information. He comes to the queasy realization that he can’t play it as he had before, if he wants what he’s aiming for.

“Though, now that I think about it... there’s one other really good thing he does,” Merlin says, feeling as though his bones are jittering beneath his skin.

Tauren gives him a questioning look and Merlin tries not to stumble back from what he’s about to say. Besides the hate the two Syndicate men share for each other, Merlin can also sense an underlying competiveness. Despite the risk, he plans to use it.

Merlin gives him an obviously fake smile, even flutters his eyelashes absurdly enough that his oncoming excuse won’t be taken with any consideration. “I’m sorry, forget—“

“Tell me,” Tauren orders, his smile brimming with irritation.

He bites his lip as though he’s trying to decide, before he rolls to his hands and knees, arse sticking out for his client’s view. “When he’s got me like this, he really knows how to hit this spot.” He makes his eyes sultry, and the anger the Syndicate man had shown before dissipates into a smirk. Tauren understands the challenge he’s been given, and from the thick outline of his engorged member in his trousers Merlin knows it’s been accepted.

A finger trails the seam of Merlin’s trousers, the line down the middle that dips between the curves of his arse. “Like this, huh?” His trousers are yanked down, baring him to the cold of the room. The material chafes painfully on his skin, but he covers it with a playful laugh.

Merlin stretches himself to lie flat against the bed, so he can grab materials from the drawer. Meanwhile, Tauren shucks off his clothes and fondles between Merlin’s legs. Once Merlin has the items in hand, Tauren pulls him back by the hip into his original position. His trousers keep his legs from spreading any wider, and Merlin has to shimmy them down so he can give his client the view he wants.

“Pendragon can only do it like this?” Tauren asks, fingers pushing in.

“It's the only way he can really satisfy me.”

“Tell me?”

“He preps me,” he starts rocking his hips and adds a breathy quality to his voice, “fucks me. Does it hard when he finds that angle.”

Merlin pants thinking about it. He doesn’t have to use his imagination, recalling from any number of appointments he’s had with Arthur. It makes him realize that they’ve haven’t had sex in a long time. The Pendragon had avoided touching him in any way after Edwin. 

There’s a strange need that encompasses the thought, and it’s much too surreal to decipher, because Merlin doesn’t _need_ sex. He gets plenty almost daily. But he misses that closeness when they join together.

Tauren spreads him deeply, using the bare minimum number of fingers. He can’t see his client's expression, but his eyes must be blown wide from the sound of Merlin's panting. When Arthur feels patient he likes to push him to the brink before pressing his cock into him. In contrast, Tauren is already splitting him wide with his length, settling deeply in. 

The challenge has spurred Tauren on in a way Merlin’s never experienced before. His client pumps his hips a few times before working to find that spot. Merlin hums when Tauren gets close and groans in disappointment when its farther away. It’s a game of hot and cold and it makes Merlin reel from the intensity.

“Is this better?” Tauren says, as Merlin gives a surprised cry when the right angle is hit. Tauren’s enthusiasm to outdo Arthur is definitely making the sex between them better. 

“Yes!” Merlin’s fantasy isn’t the least bit disrupted by Tauren’s voice. He easily imagines Arthur's familiar tones, and the rumble of him when he’s in the throes of pleasure. He doesn’t have to fake anything as Tauren drives in, over and over. The pleasure burns him in a way that makes him want to beg for mercy.

All too soon Tauren’s done, leaving Merlin sweaty and unsatisfied. He quietly brings himself off as his client recuperates, feeling guilty for reacting this way when it isn’t Arthur behind him.

“That was good,” Merlin says honestly, trying to keep himself fixed on his haphazard plan. “You got anything else up your sleeve?”

“Still got more in me if you want it,” Tauren says cockily. He’s even still half-hard.

“Didn’t think talking about Pendragon like that would get you that riled up.”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you? I got in trouble for it from your manager.” That incident had happened more than a year ago, and Tauren referred to it as some sort of inconvenience. 

“It wasn’t that bad. I’ve had worse. Cedric overreacted,” Merlin reassures, before seriously asking, “You really hate Pendragon that much?” It feels safe to drop the façade of the Avalon’s training and ask the question while his client is more subdued from their activity. 

Tauren eyes him with a lazy caution, stuck in his post-coital bliss , trying to gauge the direction the conversation is heading. At some point something clicks and he looks at Merlin with a disbelieving suspicion. “How do I know you’re not going to run to him? He's one of your clients.”

“I don’t have a lot of love for domineering tyrants.” It’s true. He does prefer one side of Arthur to the other.

“Like father, like son.”

“Really?” His curiosity is peaked. Even if the man giving him the information is Arthur’s enemy, Merlin didn’t know anything about Uther Pendragon. “What’s the father like?”

Tauren looks surprised, but then it flattens out into understanding. “I’d imagine a hooker wouldn’t know.”

“I hear rumours.”

Tauren scoffs. “Those are nothing. Punks who wander into our business thinking they can make something of it. We use what’s necessary to show them their place. When you're dealing with Syndicates, don’t expect mercy.”

There is a story of a gang leader getting shot in the knees that Merlin remembers from when he was living on the outside. He tries to grasp what constitutes as mercy for Tauren or Arthur.

“Is it really that harsh?”

Tauren gives a gut-wrenching laugh. “That’s sweet,” he says mockingly. “It’s necessary. But Uther’s the worst. Takes it past necessary.” He beings counting with his fingers when he says, “The Pendragon Syndicate has a hand in just about everything: drugs, money laundering, brothels, weapons—”

“Don’t all the Syndicates have involvement with those things?” Merlin receives a glare for his interruption.

“What sets us apart is politics and brutality.”

“What kind of brutality? And how does politics help you guys?” Merlin finds he’s interested in the discussion, learning something new about the running of a Syndicate.

“Uther’s a bastard of a businessman who knows how to manoeuver things his way. When he can’t, he’ll use force. Think of all those TV shows and movies--us bad guys kidnapping children and wives. Pendragon will take them and your cousins.”

While he can’t say he’s seen the sort of movies or television Tauren's described, Merlin only has to think about his own family. “Why do other Syndicates let him do it?”

Another bitter laugh. “We don’t. But Pendragon’s got a fuckin’ army in comparison to everyone else. And no one’s willing to cut ties or give us information, because everyone’s got their tails between their legs.”

“No one’s ever… said no?”

“I knew someone who had some personal connections with Uther, even knew his wife. They were close friends, helped birth his son.” Tauren pauses, wrinkling his nose. “He burned her alive.”

Merlin reels back in shock. “Why?”

“Wife died during a complicated birth, so the friend got the gasoline.”

“Does Arthur Pendragon—" He couldn’t say it as his stomach churns from the thought of it. Burning a person alive sounds almost barbaric to him. He once skimmed the lit end of a cigarette someone was holding between their fingers, and the flare of pain was excruciating. 

“Burn people?” Tauren seem to be enjoying his discomfort, before slipping back into his untapped hate for the Pendragon’s. “He hasn’t done anything like that. Mostly does what his dad tells him.”

“Sounds like a puppet,” he says strategically.

“Sure.” Tauren trails off, and Merlin can see he’s thinking over something with great effort.

“What?” He nudges him with his foot, then trails a toe up and down Tauren’s calf. Tauren doesn’t react to it, still working over his thoughts. Merlin has to nudge Tauren again to get his attention, wanting to know what’s suddenly bothering his client. “You look troubled.”

“I make Arthur Pendragon sound like a puppet.” Tauren shakes his head, chuckling slightly. “I think he’s the one everyone’s got to watch out for. Even his father.” He places emphasis on the last few words, and Merlin doesn’t understand.

“Are you saying Pendragon Junior is going to burn down a whole building of people?”

Tauren laughs. “Hardly. But you always have to worry about someone who doesn’t follow the ranks. Anyone in the Syndicate’s got to watch out for someone who’s arranging moves for their own benefit. Especially if they have the means to do it.”

“Isn’t it a good thing if that’s happening in a rival Syndicate?”

“Clever, aren’t you Merlin?” Tauren rolls over so he’s right on top of him. “I’d be okay with it if it wasn’t the idea of Arthur Pendragon gaining more power. Uther’s ruthless, but Arthur--he’s treacherous.”

“How?”

“My Syndicate had a deal going with Arthur, a fair trade—back then I was just a small step on the ladder—but either way, the deal was we hand over some items in exchange for money. Simple, right?” He waits for Merlin to nod before continuing. “Well Arthur, he double crossed us. We gave him the stuff, he gave us the money. The minute we turn our backs, BANG!”

Merlin jumps from the sudden shout.

“Him and his men shot us in the backs, took the cash and left us to die. Someone in the area must have called the cops, because suddenly the place is swarming with uniforms and ambulances. My cousin died, and so did a good friend.”

“You’re still alive,” Merlin says, knowing it’s a meaningless condolence.

“From what I understand, I barely made it.”

“What happened afterwards? That couldn’t have been good for business relations.”

“Oh we brought it up to Uther, since at the time we thought we were making the deal with him. But turns out Uther had no idea what we were talking about, thought we were some Syndicate small fries trying to start shit. Told us to fuck off.” 

“So Arthur had never told Uther about the deal?”

“Didn’t know shit about it.”

“So he got away with it?”

Tauren shrugs. “I heard Uther had tasked him to do some menial duties for the next few months. I still want to smash his face in. Either way, I think Uther will have to watch his own back around his son.”

Could Arthur overthrow his father as Tauren suggests? Shoot his father in the back like he’d done to Tauren? He now understands why Tauren hates Arthur so much. He’s heard the rumours, but to hear Tauren’s story makes them real. Merlin has always perceived a sliver of the ruthlessness that Arthur contains, and now he’s heard a firsthand account that can’t be passed off as a tale. 

A comment Arthur had made long before, about his father’s disapproval of him ‘sampling the goods,’ makes Merlin aware that Arthur’s defied his father before. And obviously, Arthur hasn't stopped coming by. But that seems miniscule in comparison to the suggestion of patricide. 

Had Uther Pendragon had objections to Arthur killing Edwin in the Avalon? Beyond the kinky stuff, the brothel hasn't seen violence since its designation as a neutral zone. But knowing the situation surrounding Edwin’s death, of a serial killer picking off the residents of several brothels, Merlin can’t say. He can only make decisions on what he knows, and he doesn’t know much outside the confinement of his living arrangement.

There’s a new discomfort in knowing his life is in Arthur’s hands, because he can only imagine the consequences of letting Arthur learn about his family. Nonetheless, he’s determined not to let Tauren’s perspective stop him from this task. Without Arthur, he might not be alive today. 

“I don’t blame you from wanting to smash his face in. He…” Merlin tries to think carefully about what he should say. Allying himself with Tauren is the only way he’ll get any real information. 

“He’s overbearing.” Merlin starts slowly, but finds the complaints coming forth with ease. “Egotistical, demanding—everything has to be his way, and it’s practically impossible to do anything right.” He clamps down on the words before he can say anything more. Merlin’s surprised at himself. He’s gotten used to Arthur’s behaviour and handling Arthur’s posh way, and overall, his time spent with the Syndicate heir has become more than simple physical pleasure. But it still feels great to get that off his chest.

“So Arthur Pendragon is your client.” Tauren pulls him back from the relief of his stumbling rant, reminding him of his task.

“You already knew,” he says, throwing the truth out in the open, and then follows it with a lie, “but we can both share our hate for a common enemy.”

“A common enemy?” Tauren chuckles amusingly, “How is Arthur Pendragon your enemy?”

“I’m tired of spoilt princes, and I know how dangerous he can be.” He gives the latter statement a certain weight, whispering it as though it’s a secret. 

Tauren looks sufficiently intrigued, looking Merlin over for proof.

“He’s usually very good about not leaving marks,” he adds, licking his fingers to wipe make-up from the bruise on his shoulder. The injury had had nothing to do with a client and everything to do with his own clumsiness, but it looks like it could have been a whip from a belt. 

“Your manager doesn’t do anything?”

“Cedric? Why would he? Arthur Pendragon is the boss’s son.” As expected, anger flushes Tauren’s face. Merlin knows how often clients get too rough, and that Cedric makes them pay a hush fee if they don’t want to get banned. Cedric giving Arthur free reign to do what he wants will only fan the flames of Tauren’s hate.

“Don’t worry,” Tauren says sweetly, “sometime soon, you won’t have to deal with Arthur Pendragon.”

He huffs his disbelief, stamping on Tauren’s ego, but Tauren ignores the slight and continues speaking.

“Arthur may think he has everything under his control, but I've found the one thing that can bring him down. I’m sure you’ve heard about the Pendragon boy’s trail a couple years back.” Merlin nods. “Well, the reason why the trail couldn’t go through was that witnesses went missing or got into accidents, and then the last remaining witness--the important one—dropped off the face of the earth, so there was no one to testify.”

“But you found them?” Merlin asks excitingly, everything he needs coming together.

Tauren’s smile says it all. “Martin Kelly.”

“It sounds like you have a good way of bringing him down, but would it really work?”

“Arthur's applied his pressure, and I can apply my own. If they know what’s good for them, they’ll sing in front of the judge. We've got cops on the payroll, so don’t worry your pretty arse.” He slaps it. “You don’t have to worry about Pendragon any longer. Just worry how you should thank me.” Tauren pulls Merlin so he’s sitting astride his hips. His client is hard again, excited for another round.

Merlin gives his usual laugh as he grabs another condom and works it on Tauren. He has what he wants, information that will be useful for Arthur, though he hadn't imagined it would be something on this scale. If Arthur wants to stay out of prison, it’s something he can’t ignore. 

He’ll tell him at next week’s appointment, avoiding any coy games hinting about the information he has. He’ll come out and say it, and take the brunt of Arthur’s anger, having gone against his expressed wishes. Merlin rides Tauren in satisfaction that he was able to siphon something useful from his unsuspecting client.

But he still finds himself shifting from side to side waiting for Arthur to come. The week until the scheduled date seems to fly by, and he feels unprepared with the sudden responsibility of the knowledge he holds. He struggles with how to tell Arthur, his prior courage scratched away by his thoughts and hesitance.

Despite the increasing boredom of following his usual etiquette training, the familiarity of it places him at the front door waiting for Arthur to walk through.

When Arthur does he knows immediately that Merlin has done something. And when he speaks, his voice is a gruff menace. “What did you do?”

It’s still a struggle not to back down, so he throws it out as quickly as he can. “Martin Kelly.” 

Arthur’s gaze doesn’t leave him as the door slowly swings closed behind him. The lock clicks and the abrupt switch makes Merlin jump back as Arthur launches three solid punches to the door, hissing air through his teeth.

He waits with his back to the wall, watching Arthur cuss out and unleash his anger, smacking the door and wrenching off his jackets. There’s a clearly audible ripping noise, but for once he either doesn’t take notice, or doesn’t care. 

After an indistinguishable amount of time Arthur turns to him. “Who?” From the way Arthur speaks, Merlin believes he’s unleashed a demon.

“Tauren,” Merlin says slowly, trying to be brave and look into Arthur’s eyes, to watch as the rage erupts like the spewing of molten lava, burning everything it touches. It becomes too much and he has to look away, peering at Arthur from beneath his lashes, waiting to see if he’ll try to regain control of his temper. He can literally see the anger being tamped down till it’s wrapped tightly inside and ready to spring when _he_ wants it to.

Arthur turns to him with a cold stare and stalks towards him. Merlin presses himself into the wall, but doesn’t flinch or move from his spot, even when Arthur grabs his wrists roughly in his grasp and presses his chest against Merlin’s. Like a snake charmer trying to hypnotise the snake, Arthur says, “I want you to back off.” His voice is so controlled it almost sounds monotone. “I want you to stop being stupid and realize that I don’t _want_ your help.”

He had expected Arthur to tell him to let him handle things, but he being called stupid makes something spark inside him. Merlin tries to move with Arthur’s hold keeping him in place, uninterested in hearing anymore insults and dismissals.

“Did you hear me Merlin?” Arthur shakes him a little.

It’s safe to say, from Arthur’s reaction, that he hadn’t known the information Tauren had given away, and Merlin believes the simplest of thanks would have sufficed. Instead he’s being treated like a misbehaving child. “My arse the only thing good enough for you?” he snaps back.

“Now you’re being even more of an idiot.”

“You didn’t know Tauren knew about Martin Kelly!” Merlin growls. “I got that information. Do I get a shot in the back now too?”

“Did Tauren tell you that too?” Arthur presses in closer, baring his teeth, which Merlin responds to in kind. “You can’t have any illusions of what I do Merlin. But keep talking, it’ll make me realize how stupid--”

Merlin tries to kick him, but Arthur intercepts by suddenly pulling Merlin’s weight up against the wall. His wrist are brought above his head, and he instinctively searches for balance by wrapping his legs around Arthur’s waist. He tries to squeeze his legs tight in hope that it’ll induce pain, but Arthur just smirks at his attempt. So he does the next best thing and rips his hands from Arthur’s grip so he can claw into him.

He hisses as Arthur’s hands migrate to his hips and dig in equally painfully. They’re both angry—Merlin at Arthur, and Arthur at the situation—and taking it out on each other. “You wanna know what else Tauren said? You’re a puppet, Arthur. You do your daddy’s bidding like a good puppy. But you’re rabid as hell, and one day you’ll turn on your father like you turned on him.”

“You’re crossing a line.” Merlin’s hit something.

“It’s true, isn’t it. What illusions do I have about you, Arthur? I don’t know anything about you.” He means it and it makes Arthur angrier, but not for the reasons Merlin thinks. 

Physical pain reigns across Arthur’s face, and then he begins to yell, “What utter crap are you talking about! I’ve told you about myself, even my men! I told you about what’s important to me! If anything, I don’t know anything about you.” 

Arthur begins to wind down, anger sinking back to reveal his hurt. At the moment, he thinks they’re mirrors of each other as Merlin’s fury winds down in sync. Merlin’s pressed further against the wall as Arthur leans on him for support, and he finds himself holding onto Arthur for comfort.

“You’re not supposed to know anything about me,” Merlin says quietly.

Arthur laughs. “We haven’t been following the rules for a while, they’re not going to mean anything now. Especially if you go around spying on other patrons for me.”

Arthur steps back a little, enough that the wall isn’t supporting him any longer. There’s the tingle of blood rushing back as Merlin lowers his legs back down. Neither of them lets go of the other, so Merlin rests his head on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Did you get in trouble for killing Edwin?”

“Of course, killing someone in a neutral establishment--even if he was a serial killer--doesn’t look good for the Syndicate.” A chaste kiss is placed on his neck. “I’m still here though.”

Which means Arthur’s father definitely doesn’t want him here, so he has to ask, “Why?”

Arthur shrugs, refusing to say anything. Instead, they are brought back to the original topic of discussion, which hopefully won't devolve into another shouting match. “I need you to stay out of this, for me.” 

Merlin can barely hear Arthur’s voice with how softly and _politely_ he makes the request. It makes him feel guilty that he has to refuse. “I can’t. I don’t care why you think I’m doing this, even if it’s right. I need to.”

“So fuckin’ stubborn.” Arthur hugs him a little tighter before stepping back. “I need to think about it.”

Merlin watches as Arthur crosses the room and locks himself in the bathroom. With the reprieve from the Pendragon’s presence, he takes a moment to gather his resolve and think things over. Like whether he’s really doing this for Arthur or himself. The more he embroils himself in the situation, the easier it is to see that his desire to involve himself in Arthur’s affairs isn't really about returning a favour. Finding out about Martin Kelly has given him an incredible satisfaction—the sort he can get drunk on.

Though, he could have done without Arthur’s sudden flare of temper. The door is made of heavy solid wood though, and wouldn’t damaged by a couple of strong punches. No one can be that strong, though he jokingly thinks that Arthur could defy that logic if need be. The idea sours as it unsettles him. How much should he trust Arthur? Thinking about himself, Merlin knows he’s different when he’s alone in the room than when he’s working with clients. What does it really mean to know Arthur Pendragon? 

The spoiled man makes complaints and snotty comments, throws him insults, and has sex with him gently when he feels like it. And Merlin does know a lot about Arthur’s life and his relationships with the men under his command. But where does that Arthur end, and the Arthur full of rage and fury begin? Today is the first time he’s seen Arthur throw a real fit, lacking any semblance of control. 

Could he let Arthur know who he is? The question might already be a moot point, considering Merlin has already divulged some bits of his barely remembered family history. And he wonders if it’s possible to really know himself when his mother is only an idea. 

What about their argument as Arthur trapped Merlin to the wall? Merlin had responded to Arthur’s violence with equal measure, and can admit that he enjoyed Arthur’s struggle to contain him. There will definitely be bruises on his hips tomorrow.

The bathroom door opens and Merlin drops his hands to his sides to stop inspecting his body, though his trousers are snagged on one side right below his hip.

Arthur doesn’t say anything about it and motions for Merlin to sit on the sofa as he takes a seat on the opposite end.

He waits for whatever Arthur plans to say, yet finds himself the recipient of only a stare. It takes some time for Merlin to realize he’s now dealing with Arthur Pendragon, Syndicate member, as said man watches him carefully. Merlin does his best not to waver, despite not knowing what would look like a sign of weakness.

“You really want to know what I do?”

Merlin’s elated, because he hadn’t thought Arthur would give in. He’s like a brick wall, so Merlin doesn’t know what he did to shake the foundation. “Yes. What do you have in mind?”

“Just do as I say.” Arthur’s predatory smile alarms him, and the plan didn’t make Merlin has comfortable. 

Arthur asks about Tauren’s next appointment and Cedric’s side investments, then leaves with only one instruction: keep him entertained. Arthur won’t say anything more when he asks, and Merlin's earlier elation grinds back down to frustration. The possibility that Arthur’s simply trying to string him along into compliancy sets him back on edge.

The anger is quick to pass as a few days later, Cedric gives him a call. His voice shakes as he tells Merlin that he’s giving Tauren a week's stay due to an payment error on his part, and Merlin knows the reason is bullshit. He’s sure Cedric is aware as well, but they both nod like it’s completely normal. 

A week-long stay with Tauren where Merlin has to keep him entertained. Whatever the weapon is, it’s in Arthur’s hands. Merlin is certain that he’s been assigned as bait, but it still doesn’t explain Arthur’s part in his plan. A brief moment of paranoia convinces him that Arthur will tell Tauren what he’d done. And he questions sanity, because there’s no way that Arthur and Tauren would meet each other so peacefully. They’d shoot first. They wouldn’t even ask questions. 

He looks around the room, thinking about the soundproofing beneath and whether it could muffle the sound of a gun. It successfully blocks any shouting, all the rooms are designed that way. He thinks Arthur might kill Tauren in the Avalon, despite his father’s disapproval of killing Edwin in neutral territory, but Merlin quickly dismisses the idea. If Arthur is planning to take Tauren out, there are a number of other places for the deed. People walk in and out of the Avalon at all hours of the day, ranging from staff, security, to clients. It isn’t isolated enough. At least, that’s how he thinks something like this is done.

Increasing nerves make him frantic, cleaning his room to a spotless shine almost obsessively. He feels more nervous for this appointment than the one where he'd schemed to cajole information from Tauren. Merlin rubs at his trigger finger like Arthur had done so long ago, but it doesn’t have any effect. The closer the appointment date approaches the more difficult it becomes to sleep. He doesn’t know the plan, only his part in it.

 

An hour before Tauren arrives, Merlin orders himself a full pot of coffee to keep his fatigue at bay, which doesn’t help the shake in his hands. He questions if he can do anything in the state he’s in.

A key inserts, the lock turns, and Merlin greets Tauren with too much enthusiasm. “Hi!” 

“Hello.” Tauren looks at him, perturbed, so he scrambles to make himself sound less crazed.

“Sorry, there’s this new coffee I wanted to try.” He points to the pot. “And I really like the taste. Since you’re spending a whole week with me, maybe we could enjoy it together.” There aren’t many moments that make Merlin want to gag, but the stupidity of his words swirls in his gut. “A whole week,” Merlin repeats, “you’re spoiling me.”

“Turns out Cedric can be more than a worm. Exactly when I needed some downtime. The timing couldn’t be better.” Tauren smiles at Merlin and he gets the feeling that he should understand what it means, except his blood is pumping heavily and roars in his ears. Mostly, he’s trying to keep his finger from twitching.

“Do Syndicate men get vacation?”

“Only when there’s a need to celebrate.”

“What’s the celebration?”

Tauren laughs at him and runs his hands over his body. “I think you should lay off the coffee Merlin. You can’t think straight.”

He latches onto the reason, shrugging his shoulders like he made a clumsy mistake. “It was really good.” Even though his attempt at distracting Tauren from his nervousness hadn’t worked, at least his client doesn’t know the real reason behind it. Merlin takes deep breaths, making it look like he’s taking in Tauren’s scent. He falls into a routine, licking up the side of his neck, waiting for the nerves to become a distant buzz.

“You wanna stay in bed the whole week?” They give each other a dirty smile.

“That's probably the best way to stay off the radar.”

“You in trouble?”

“I might get some heat, but I was here all week with you. Think you can remember.” His crotch is squeezed lightly, pushing a thrill up his spine. “When Cedric called, I was wondering why the hell he was calling me about some loyal customer bullshit.” 

Merlin tries not to show his surprise, but fails. Hadn’t Cedric said it was because of a payment error?

Thankfully, Tauren misinterprets his look. “I know. Here I thought your manager made a living sucking up to those above him, and he can’t give me a better reason then customer service. I should wring his neck for every time he made me pay him to hush up.”

“You got something he wants?”

“He probably doesn’t want to die. Arthur Pendragon hasn’t been in the best of moods lately. Heard he’s snapped a few times.” Tauren pulls back. “You had an appointment with him last week, didn’t you? Did he seem agitated?”

Merlin reels a bit in surprise to hear Tauren blatantly describing Arthur’s schedule with him, and his eyes shift around the room, thinking about hidden cameras and microphones.

Tauren frowns at Merlin’s reaction. “Did Pendragon say something?”

“I—“ he falters.

Eyes narrow dangerously at Merlin and suddenly he’s against the wall again. Only now, there’s an arm across his throat. “Did you say anything?” he hisses, threatening to press down further.

The face in front of Merlin changes. Tauren, Edwin, and the john’s images float across his eyes, merging into one another as they bear down on him and suck out the air from his lungs. Strangely, despite his panic, another part of him is serenely calm. He needs to pull through on Arthur’s ‘plan’, especially when he'd gone through so much trouble to put this in motion.

Merlin doesn’t know why he'd decided to put the pendant in the pocket of his suit jacket, and he’d forgotten that he placed it there, until the tiny metal bump makes itself known as a monster closes in. The shape of the jewellery isn’t defined, but he knows the feel of it from it cutting into his palms. He squeezes his fist, imagining it indenting into his skin, until it’s Tauren clearly in front of him. The rest of his life he’ll have to put onto Arthur.

“I didn’t say anything,” Merlin wheezes. As Tauren threatens to crush his windpipe, he struggles to repeat himself. “I didn’t. Arthur was just in a really bad mood. I got scared.”

“What kind of mood?” The arms eases off by an inch.

“He tried to punch his fist through the door, I thought he was going to try to push my head in too.” Merlin stares Tauren down, hoping the lie doesn’t sound far fetched.

When Tauren lets go Merlin does his best to hold in his sigh of relief. He'd almost cocked things up.

Merlin walks to the bar and takes the first random bottle. He doesn’t know what he’s pouring for Tauren and he doesn’t care. Arthur left him with the instruction to entertain him, with no further details. If Arthur’s doing this to spite him, the temptation to dig for more material is tempting, but he not off to a good start here.

A glass is raised to his client and he turns on his flirtatious charm. “In celebration.” The alcohol is readily accepted, and swallowing the liquid down lets him know his throat is working just fine. Twice he’s been restrained against the wall. 

Arthur and Tauren aren’t so different, though Merlin definitely holds more of an attraction to Arthur—was reeled in when they first met, hook, line, and sinker. His connection to Arthur had only gone deeper from there. Arthur is handsome, but it’s something beyond that. Tauren has his own rugged charm but Merlin doesn’t find himself yearning for his company, not that he’ll tell Arthur that.

With his attraction to Arthur and the way they are with each other, Merlin doesn’t think he can claim that Arthur's a client anymore. Yet calling it anything else resembling a relationship seems ridiculous for someone who makes their living sleeping with people. He likes listening to Arthur’s stories, about his life or his men. It's against everything Merlin had gotten used to. Arthur’s a breath of fresh air breezing through his cage.

His mouth is latched onto Tauren’s, their tongues flicking against one another as Merlin opens Tauren’s button-down shirt and slides it over his shoulders. Tauren’s stubble pricks at his skin, scratching at his throat as he moves down to mouth at Merlin’s collarbone.

He’s slow to realize movement at the corner of his eyes. When Merlin turns his head, he freezes. Arthur’s face is impassive as he’s completely focused on his target. Merlin doesn’t need to look to know there’s a gun in Arthur’s hand. The Syndicate heir’s prized possession. 

Tauren doesn’t seem to realize Merlin has stiffened up, no longer paying him any attention. Arthur slowly takes his eyes off of Tauren and looks straight at Merlin. He jerks his head to the side, a silent command to get out of the way. Merlin stares at Arthur, trying to wrap his head around this. He'd understood the command perfectly and he'd known that something was going to happen, but he's still trying to discern if this is real. Understanding the reality of the gun in Arthur’s hand takes less than a second, but for him it feels like ages.

This is happening now.

With as much strength as he can muster, Merlin pushes Tauren off him and launches to the other side of the room. Tauren shouts his confusion and displeasure, before he realizes _who_ is in the room with them. Merlin’s run into the safety of the closet and watches the final moments between these rivals.

Tauren faces Arthur with the look of a rabid dog, and lunges at him with no care for caution or cover. The force of the bullet, right in the forehead, knocks Tauren back. Confusion sets in as Merlin tries to remember hearing the sound of the gun firing. Looking back at the weapon in Arthur’s hand, Merlin can see a long cylinder extending the length of the barrel.

He doesn’t know if that’s what changed the sound of the gun, but it must be—it’s the only thing different. It’s not the loud bang Merlin remembers from experience. Instead there had been a sharp sounding puff.

There isn’t much blood either. A small trail spills down from the wound in Tauren’s head, rather than the amount Merlin remembers, that had soaked the john's shirt and the floor.

This event is anti-climactic, but the results are the same. He’s left breathing and dazed, staring at the body before him. He hadn't pulled the trigger, but he won’t deny that he’s intrinsically part of the moves that had brought about Tauren’s death.

“Now you know what I do.”

Merlin jumps, shifting his attention to Arthur, who is watching him steadily. He can’t read what those eyes are saying to him, but there’s no admonishment or congratulation. Looking back at Tauren, he still sees the body of another man.

“Are you thinking about him?”

Merlin doesn’t say anything, barely registering that Arthur has moved in front of him a moment later and blocks his view. He has no choice but to pay attention to Arthur, who is checking his eyes and pulse. He stays silent through the examination, knowing what Arthur’s looking for. 

“You seem to be doing okay,” Arthur whispers.

“You wouldn’t have killed Tauren like this if you thought I couldn’t handle it.”

“I was gambling a bit. But I didn’t think you would react too badly.”

“I know what a body looks like,” Merlin cuts in.

“I know.” Arthur takes up Merlin’s hands. “This finger’s not twitching.”

Merlin nods, unsure what it means. Instead he asks, “Was your plan to show me the hellish depths of the Pendragon Syndicate?”

“Yes,” Arthur replies blatantly.

“I’m not going to back off,” Merlin states firmly.

“I get why you want to help Merlin, because I know what it’s like to feel powerless. But I don’t want you in danger.”

Merlin ignores Arthur’s loving voice, asking an obvious question. Simultaneously, he tightens his hold on Arthur’s hand. “What do we do with the body?” 

“Help me prepare it for transport.” Arthur’s pulls Merlin towards Tauren, and any small bit of resistance Merlin feels is quickly squashed down.

“We’re not cutting it to pieces are we?”

Merlin’s given a queer look, which he answers with a shrug. “I don’t want to know where you got that idea. Those bloodstains would be hard enough to explain to Cedric.”

It’s only a few drops of blood on the bed sheet, but it’s evidence to what transpired. “Help me carry him to the coffee table, I don’t want any blood getting onto the carpet.”

Together they lift Tauren’s body and amble their way with the heavy weight. A few times Merlin ends up dropping Tauren’s feet, not use to this kind of heavy lifting. Arthur has a hold on the bulkier mass of the body and carries it with ease.

“After this week is over, people are going to notice Tauren not turning up. Some attention is going to come down on you and Cedric for a bit, since this is the last place he’s been. I need you to be ready for that.”

Merlin nods, looking at the bedsheet. He quickly yanks it off, gathering it in his arms, wondering where he should put it. When he looks to Arthur to ask, he halts at the sadness in his eyes, directed at him. 

Merlin doesn’t know what it will mean from here on out.

After the week passes, the events that follow are as Arthur described. Merlin has done everything Arthur had asked to keep up the illusion that Tauren was making use of his stay. Food and drinks for two are ordered daily, and he even goes so far as adding pillows underneath the blankets to look as though someone is resting in the bed, or closing the bathroom door and turning on the shower whenever the servers bring the orders. 

Arthur doesn’t come back again to check up on him. While it bolster his confidence that Arthur has that much trust in him, he’s equally lost without his guidance in this. The last time he'd had to deal with this, Merlin had run as far as he could, cutting ties with the few friends he'd had. Now the only place he can run is to the other side of the room. It doesn’t do much to qualm his fear of getting caught.

The instant the phone rings, three days after the end of Tauren’s appointment, Merlin is already expecting Cedric’s panicking voice. Merlin acts confused, repeating over and over that Tauren had left after the session was done. When a room of Syndicate men come barging in to question him, he repeats the lie with no difficulty as Tauren’s men clench and unclench their fists. Merlin does feel bad for Cedric at this moment, but it doesn’t change anything. He pretends to be surprised, and even when he feels real worry they don’t question him, believing him to be intimidated by the weapons they are armed with.

Eventually, Tauren is found floating in the river. Merlin had never thought how it would look when two of his clients end up dying, but everybody passes it off as an odd coincidence. Merlin listens as the stories and rumours run through the phone lines, people telling him sorry that he lost a regular, not expressing much grief over a client’s passing. He acts nonchalant, telling them he’ll have to reel another person in. Then the conversations go on to the usual.

When he finally sees Arthur again, they don’t speak, touch, or rejoice that they were able to get away with Tauren’s murder. They’re silent to the point that it feels almost awkward, because they should be doing something. Yet, going up to kiss Arthur feels wrong, and so would having sex on the bed. 

The wrongness is not out of guilt though. The events that lead to Tauren’s death still feels surreal to him, because he'd had a part in it. Honestly, he’s okay that Tauren’s dead. This was a Syndicate rivalry at work between Tauren and Arthur. 

Arthur won.

Said man is sitting on the sofa, as Merlin sits cross-legged on the bed. His jacket is carelessly thrown to the side, and the sleeves are rolled up past his elbows. He’s completely relaxed, waiting on Merlin. He has an idea why.

“If I offered to make you exclusive to me again, would you take it?”

“I was expecting you to say that.”

“You know me too well.”

Arthur says it like a joke, but it brings a genuine small smile to his face to hear it. He likes that he can have this freedom with a client—formally a client, a partner at best. It still doesn’t change his mind though. 

“Well, you know me too.” It’s not particularly true. Merlin hasn’t given every detail of his life to Arthur, only a few of the important bits.

Arthur stays silent on that point. “Tell me why you want to spy for me. Don’t say that you want to help me, or return some favour. It’s a nice sentiment, but I want to hear what this is going to do for you.” 

“Can’t I do this because I care about you? You’ve done a lot for me, and I’m only a hooker.”

“You don’t have to protect me Merlin.”

“I saw my mother die,” he says out of the blue. The recollection of the memory isn’t clear, and it’s not something he'd thought he’d tell Arthur. But maybe it's time he fessed up to his mistake. “A john and his friends followed her home. They shot her.” 

“Where were you?”

“My mom told me to hide when they broke down the door. I went under the bed and stayed there for a long time, but they didn’t leave. I don’t know when I realized they were looking for me, but the minute I could I slipped out the window.

“I remember that there was a gun on the floor. It had slid to me when my mom knocked it out of one of the guys hands. She fought back right to the end,” Merlin smiles at that, “and then I ran away. I was probably nine or ten, but I could’ve done something. I’ve heard of six-year-olds firing off guns, I could have shot them. Helped her.”

“You’re blaming yourself for your mother’s death?”

“I killed someone when I was sixteen, I fought back and protected myself. If I could do that—“

“Sixteen and ten are worlds away from each other, Merlin. The Syndicate's a part of me. I’ve _trained_ to use a gun since I was a kid, but I wouldn’t have survived that kind of attack when I was ten. There’s no guarantee that you would have held off a gang of men from taking out your mother.”

“How would you know?”

“Because my father doesn’t take betrayal very well.” That same sadness is in Arthur’s eyes as when Merlin had taken the sheets stained with Tauren’s blood off the bed. He stares at Arthur, silently asking him to confirm what he thinks that sentence means. Arthur looks away in shame.

Merlin feels sick, learning that this event in his life was orchestrated by Uther too. His mom is dead because a man who may or may not be his father had betrayed the wrong person. He finds he’s also upset at the idea that Arthur probably knows more about his family than he does. And Arthur has most likely known these details for some time, ever since Merlin first spoke to Arthur about his mother.

He bites his lip to remain silent, because there’s nothing to be done. He’s heard of Uther’s vengeance and now he knows he’s experienced it firsthand. Arthur could have killed him anytime, maybe shot him and Tauren together. Instead, Arthur’s sitting on his sofa looking like the burden of guilt rest completely on his shoulders. But mostly, he knows Arthur’s right. He wouldn’t have survived, even if the gang of men hadn't been out specifically to kill him and his mother.

“You’re right to say I don’t like feeling powerless. When I met you, I realized how powerless I had actually become. I've followed a routine over and over, fucking and flirting, and I haven’t stepped a foot outside this room for…I’ve honestly never bothered remembering. I was content to have this. Being brought here…I suddenly I didn’t have to worry about food, rent, cops, or someone trying to beat me so they didn’t have to pay. Then you came and fucked things up for me.”

Arthur snorts. “You love me for it.” 

Merlin shrugs at Arthur, knowing it would have been incredibly pompous if it wasn’t true. 

“Is that a confession?” Arthur tries to appear nonchalant, but Merlin can see the stiffness in his shoulders as he waits for a reply.

“Don’t get full of yourself.” It’s a horrible attempt at sarcasm.

Arthur goes to Merlin, kneeling in front of him, pressing his stomach to the edge of the bed. Merlin’s feet have gone numb sitting in this position, but he doesn’t want to move.

“I have a different offer, if you want to hear me out.”

“You’re going to tell me anyway.”

“Of course.” They smile as they inch their way back to a connection they’ve nurtured with quips and banter. “If you won’t accept my offer, if you want to keep me safe…if you’re going to keep putting yourself in danger because you’re unsatisfied with being the Avalon’s dull puppet, then work for me.”

It never crosses his mind not to accept.

  
 **  
 ******

****PART 4****

 ** **** **

Merlin reads the sheet of paper that had been folded beneath his dinner tray. It contains all the information he needs to know: the client’s name, photo, a brief background, and what Arthur wants to know. His main purpose is to be Arthur’s ears. On rare occasions, Arthur gets him to extract information from someone. There aren’t any rules on how he does it, as long as he stays within the context of the Avalon’s etiquette. 

Well, there is one thing. Arthur had emphasized to Merlin that he’s not allowed to insert himself into the situation like he had done with Tauren. He doesn’t know if that’s an actual rule, or if Arthur’s saying it to keep him out of danger, but he’ll follow it, or else Arthur will stop this all together.

The strange part for Merlin is that he’s still doing everything he’d done before, except now he’s curving conversations to the specific needs of the Pendragon Syndicate. The thought of spying on his clients excites Merlin. He gets assigned his tasks when Arthur comes to him, or he gets notes with his meals, like the one he holds in his hand now. 

What he isn’t too excited about is how it seems to distance him and Arthur. Merlin won’t say it, but he feels embarrassed to have ‘confessed’ to Arthur. Thinking back to it, it makes his stomach squirm in giddiness. He can’t call Arthur a client anymore, and the term ‘boyfriend’ isn't right. Mostly, he would coin them as lovers. 

Yet, Merlin’s not sure if that’s the case anymore. They spend less time indulging in sex and intimacy, and instead talk business, as Merlin retells everything he gathers and Arthur quickly puts the information to use, calling various contacts on his phone. Sometimes Arthur offhandedly explains to Merlin various aspects of the Syndicate's business. 

It feels like Arthur has become his boss. Nonetheless, it pleases him to hear that this work is having some positive effect for Arthur. 

For the most part, his spying depends on whether Arthur wants something or if he’s simply fishing amongst the random people he caters to on a daily basis. It’s been a few times where he listens to clients complain or indulge in talking about the deals Arthur Pendragon has recently made. The majority of it is Arthur getting more Syndicate influences with various corporations and businesses, due to the fact that Merlin will largely hear about corporate moguls making under-the-table deals. The only other information Merlin ever listens in on are from people working in a rival Syndicates, bragging about their possible promotions due to this and that. 

Then there are the times Arthur sends notes with something more specific in mind. So far, the notes have never fully explained how the targeted information he gets will be used. On even rarer occasions Arthur uses him as a screen, determining the trustworthiness of a Pendragon Syndicate member. Then there are regulars that get sent his way, and afterwards Arthur asks him to repeat everything they say and any observations he makes. 

Merlin gets the inkling that Arthur doesn’t want him to know what he’s up to with those cases. But what makes him really curious is that some of the people Arthur sends his way don’t really belong there. 

There’s Alvarr for example. A businessman who could probably afford time with one of the other top floor residents and yet continues to buy his. There's Paul, a small link on the bottom ladder of Pendragon Syndicate who couldn’t possibly buy his time. And then there’s Vivienne, a bored trophy wife, who uses him as therapy to complain about her husband’s lack of attention to her. 

Amongst the vast amount of verbal garbage Vivienne runs on about, Merlin still doesn’t have a clue what Arthur could actually find interesting. She talks a lot about _everything_ and most of it means nothing to him. She notes the details of her life down to the smallest dull step, but thankfully she uses most of her time complaining about her husband’s outings—it’s exceedingly more interesting than listening to the variations of nail-polish-related topics in her brain.

As for Alvarr, Merlin hopes he’s not another Tauren. There’s something sly about him, like he’s looking for every coin squeezed in between the sofa’s cushion, and from your pocket too. Every so often Merlin gets asked about Cedric or the Avalon’s ties with the Pendragon Syndicate, and every note of instructions tells Merlin to give a prepared set of information to feed to Alvarr.

Despite the strangeness of those two, Paul catches Merlin’s attention the most. He can’t pinpoint it exactly. Paul is like a mix between Vivienne and Alvarr; everything he says is somehow empty of truth and meaning. In this case, Arthur didn’t give Merlin anything to say to him, so the mystery behind Paul creates an itch he wants to scratch.

He doesn’t know what tricks Arthur uses to get them here, since the trick they had used on Tauren would only go so far, and people would notice if the Avalon were to give away complimentary sessions with a certain resident every single time. If people are really being sent to have free time with him, Cedric must be having a fit, or Arthur’s been paying him off.

It’s world of deceit, money, and lies, and sometimes he wonders if he’s made the right choice. It wrenches him to hear about Uther Pendragon celebrating the successes with Arthur, and it comes with the uncomfortable realization that helping Arthur is in turn benefiting Uther. It’s a grudge he’s well aware he harbours in his heart, but in the end Merlin trusts Arthur won’t turn out the same way.

At least, most of the time he trusts Arthur. His lover—the term still feels weird—keeps a tight lip about his operations. Those who need to know will know and Merlin feels shafted to be left out. Anytime Merlin asks about Paul, Arthur clamps down his lips especially hard and quickly changes the subject. 

It makes him wonder who Paul is and he can’t let it go, because nothing about him seems overly special. When Paul had first passed through the door, Merlin had instantly pegged that he wasn’t a businessman. The suit had been too cheap, and what set him apart from a high ranking Syndicate member was the speech—it was too low-brow.

Arthur isn’t going to tell him anything and Merlin’s keen to know what’s going on, putting the pieces together himself. He sees Paul two or three times a month, and as Merlin flirts, prods, and moves with Paul’s rhythm, the mystery teases him. The temptation to press Arthur, despite knowing his response, gets stronger and stronger the more questions Paul asks. 

The angles of the questions are disconcerting. It’s the first time a client has asked Merlin about his life in the Avalon, and his life outside, before he'd come here. Merlin can’t recall if even Arthur had ever asked so straightforwardly. Though, Merlin has a feeling that Arthur had expected him to tell it in his own time. Edwin had simply pushed it much sooner than Merlin thinks he would have naturally, and then Arthur had gone off to find the rest of the information himself.

He’s not going to ask Arthur. Something is going down with the Syndicate, because he can see the pressure Arthur is under. His lover has become more subdued, quiet, and even more affectionate. Cuddling is not something he's experienced a lot, but Merlin can say he likes it. Arthur has his own things to deal with, but Merlin isn’t going to let it go.

It’s breaking the rule that Arthur had been most explicit about—searching through a client’s clothing is certainly interjecting himself into the situation. Yet this is the best opportunity he’s going to get, while Paul’s taking a shower. Usually he leaves right away after the heavy petting or sex, which is always stalled to the very end of the session—another thing that stands out about Paul. He never appears uncomfortable with Merlin, yet he can sense his client's reservation. To Merlin, it's clear that Paul is doing this for a job.

So what's the job?

The haphazard pile of clothing lies at the foot of the bed. Merlin hopes Paul doesn't notice if the piles looks different from before, because there’s no way he can replicate it. Paul’s muffled voice echoes through the bathroom door—he’s busy talking on his mobile with someone else, not having gotten into the shower yet. Either way, his ears pay attention to his client while Merlin works the courage to pick up the first item.

The business suit is well worn, and looking closely at the edges, he can see that the colour of the suit is wearing away. He goes through the pockets searching for any bits of information. So far, there’s a receipt for take-out and coffee. Interestingly, there’s another receipt in an inner pocket for an item that’s definitely for a female. Girlfriend, or wife? It would explain Paul’s reserved nature when they have sex. But why does he keep coming to see him?

In the trousers Merlin finds his wallet. Like the suit, the leather wallet is getting worn down like it’s been through a lot. The contents are the bare essentials: a driver's licence stating the client’s full name as Paul Dandry, plus credit cards, debit cards, and a gym membership. The only other item is a slip of paper with a phone number on it, and a mini shoe horn. It’s completely devoid of anything personal. He surprised to find no picture of Paul’s girl. The shoe horn is the only thing that sticks out, but he can’t make heads or tails on why Paul would keep it in his wallet. 

He puts the wallet back, searching through everything else until there’s nothing left in the pile to inspect. A huff of exasperation keeps his mind turning. He knows he’s close, that’s what his gut instincts tell him. Except there’s nothing else to find. There's Paul’s mobile, but his client keeps that item close by at all times. 

It’s a snap of a barely formed thought that has Merlin searching for the wallet again, taking the small shoe horn that didn’t belong there. There’s a trick he knows that a dealer had used to hide his stashes. It had been a middle-class couple, actually. The man had dealt with the costumers, while his partner had her large collection of heels and shoes. 

Merlin rushes to the front entrance, hearing that Paul is no longer talking on the phone and the shower is running. It won’t be long before he exits the bathroom. Paul’s shoes are an ordinary pair of black dress shoes: scuffed, but well taken care of. He tilts the shoe, looking at it from every angle before peeking in the interior. He could see it then, the way the height of the soles didn’t match with the height of the inner cushions. Merlin pokes at the inner edge with the shoe horn. He slips it in between and pulls, finding that the glue resists against the horn. 

For a moment, he questions himself. Yet decides to check the other shoe nonetheless, and the shoe’s inside cushion slips out without the resistance of the glue. There’s a black oval of plastic, looped with a ball-bearing chain. Merlin’s heart thrums, because he can’t believe it. Grabbing it, he almost thinks it’s going to shock him. He turns it over and the shoe drops from his hand in shock. The shiny metal of the federal badge makes his head reel.

Paul Dandry is a federal agent. 

Paul Dandry probably isn’t even his real name. He’s probably an undercover cop working inside the Pendragon Syndicate, trying to subtly ask Merlin questions. Merlin doesn’t know if there are differences between cops and feds, but it might not matter. They are upholders of the law. 

There’s a scuff against the carpet behind him. He’s been so completely preoccupied with the badge, he hadn’t hear that the shower isn’t running anymore. 

Merlin quickly dives to the side, running to the door and forgetting in his momentary panic that he’d need a key to get it open. Two strong hands reach around and pull him back. He’s being squeezed tight against Paul, arms trapped to his sides, his legs kicking wildly but with no success at hurting his assailant.

He’s always done his best to avoid the cops, for obvious reasons. And now unknowingly, he’s been sleeping with one. Had Arthur known about this? Or is it only a suspicion? Maybe he’s here for Merlin to distract and keep him occupied. If only Arthur would tell him anything.

“Calm down,” Paul whispers, trying to keep him restrained.

It only makes Merlin angrier, thrash harder. He's focusing all of it on Arthur’s image, because there is no way that he hadn’t known, or had at least an inkling. And yet had put him in the same room with a fed. Merlin wants to know why he’s been so quiet about it. And as Merlin calms, he can work out the reason. 

Arthur hadn’t trusted how Merlin would react. There's only one way to feel upon the discovery of an undercover fed working within the Syndicate organizations. No one likes when the person you trust ends up being the enemy. That’s essentially what Merlin does for Arthur, spying on the confessions and grievances of people who trust him, all to give the Pendragons the upper hand. He feels no guilt in reacting badly as the fed keeps a tight hold on him, but calms.

While Merlin can live with Tauren’s death, a dead fed spells trouble that should be avoided.

“You’re a fed. I didn’t know agents get paid to have sex with hookers,” he quips.

“You definitely weren’t this mouthy when you were trying to ‘make me feel better’.”

“I don’t know. I did a lot of things with my mouth.” 

The fed actually gives an appreciative laugh at Merlin’s jibe, and is slightly impressed. “Did growing up on the streets teach you to trash talk like that?” 

He scoffs and kicks his leg back in a move that misses the fed’s legs completely. “What do you know?”

“Your name is Merlin Emrys. Born to Hunith Emrys, father unknown. But there did happen to be a man named Balinor Iarliath, who worked for the Pendragon Syndicate until he turned for us. At some point Balinor was found out, forcing him and Hunith into hiding. Shortly after, Hunith Emrys gave birth to Merlin Emrys on June 20, 1990 at 11:11pm. We lost track of the Emrys family and Balinor until March 8, 2000, when a call came in about a woman shot in her apartment, with her ten year old boy missing. In 2004 a man was shot in a downtown motel, assailant unknown, though believed to be the prostitute the victim had paid time with, which I believe to be you if the descriptions and the location of your residence at that time are right.” 

Merlin stills, listening to the fed rattle off the information like he'd studied a guide—he probably has, meaning there’s a file somewhere in the federal headquarters about him and his family. Thanks to the fed, Merlin now knows that his father had been the worst possible kind of traitor, turning coat for the government authorities. No wonder Uther Pendragon had been relentless, even after Merlin and his mother had hid for a decade.

“Did I get anything wrong?” the cop asks cheekily.

“You going to arrest me?” he snaps back.

“Considering the signs of struggle noted in the police report and the victim's history of violence, I’d call it self-defence.” The fed shrugs, uncaring as he lets him go, but positioning himself between Merlin and the door.

“It’s not fair that you know all this information about me and I know nothing about you.” Merlin isn’t going to mention that he'd shot the john in cold blood when the ‘victim’ had backed off. 

“I don’t give a crap about fair.” The cop talks like it’s an average conversation between friends. He doesn’t seem to have lost his cool despite being discovered.

“What’s your name?”

“It’s Paul.”

“Bullshit that you’re Paul Dandry. You’re an undercover fed.”

“Sorry kid, it’s still Paul.”

“Fine then Paul, who’s the ring for?”

The cop’s eyes narrow at him. He isn’t baring his teeth, but it’s close. “How do you know about that?”

“Receipt, left pocket.”

“Clever. But I should expect that from someone who knows where to look for my badge.”

Merlin can see where this is heading. “I’m not my father.”

“Your father?”

He corrects himself. “I’m not Balinor.”

“Do you know where he is?” The cop asks with interest.

“No, I never met him. I just know about him.”

“You also know about Uther Pendragon? Maybe more about Arthur Pendragon? Does the Pendragon son give you exclusive treatment? Stroke himself to the glory of the Pendragon Syndicate?”

He can’t tell if the cop is making a threat, or being his usual care-free, acerbic self. Either way he has to be careful with what he says, because Merlin doesn’t know what the feds are after. Obviously, Merlin’s history and his association with Arthur are things the fed had researched; he doesn’t know what other knowledge he might have. To everyone else, Merlin is Arthur’s favourite resident at the Avalon. No one would think of them as lovers, or especially that Merlin’s secretly working for Arthur, which would put him in even more trouble.

Figuring out how much the fed knows is the first priority. The second, he’ll work out as he goes.

“Why would you think Arthur Pendragon would tell me anything?”

“People talk to you. They open their mouths and blab about the wonders of their life. You’ll know a thing or two about what’s going on.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about you. Not even your name.” He definitely knows more than a thing or two, and the irony is that the fed gave the exact same reasoning he’d given Arthur, to convince him to spy for his benefit. This fed had deduced the same thing. He'd probably been investigating within the Pendragon Syndicate for some time and encountered the brothels in various numbers. 

Paul takes a moment to think something over, then comes to a conclusion and says, “The name’s Tristan.”

“Last name?”

Tristan sighs, but gives in either way. “Cornwall.”

“Tristan Cornwall,” Merlin repeats.

“Yes. And the ring’s for my girlfriend.” Tristan takes his badge, and works on prying it from the plastic. He tugs out a folded up piece of paper. It isn’t until Tristan gingerly unfolds it that he realizes it’s a wallet-sized photo. He holds it out to Merlin, who cautiously takes it.

“You’re trusting me with this?”

“I think you can help.”

The trust in Tristan’s eyes makes him uncomfortable, and Merlin doesn’t understand his reasoning. Why should he help? In the picture there’s a slim woman at a bar, at some Halloween event judging by the costume she’s wearing. She’s blonde and blue-eyed—a definite beauty, and the love of Tristan’s life, from the way he looks at the picture.

“She’s pretty,” Merlin mumbles, shrugging.

Tristan looks at the photo one last time before stowing it away into the safety of his badge. It’s hidden well. The badge doesn't look as though it could be pried away from the plastic backing. He then holds up the badge up to Merlin and says, “I’ve been working a long time on this case, and it’s hard to make any headway, even working from within their ranks. It’d be of great help if you’re willing to cooperate.”

“You want me to go up against Uther Pendragon.”

“You’ll have the protection of the police force.”

“We both know that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Balinor Iarliath tried either way.”

Merlin glares. “And I said I’m not him.” He’s angry, not because of Tristan’s insistence and comparison, but from the unexpected jealousy that Tristan Cornwall knows more about Balinor than Merlin does, even if it’s only from reading a criminal file.

“Let’s sit and chat.” At Merlin’s resistance to move, he adds, “You’re free to say no.”

Merlin decides to comply. If he wants to figure out what Tristan knows he’ll have to play along, even though the current situation with the fed trying to get him to flip makes him uneasy.

“I don’t know how aware you are of the world outside of this room, but the Syndicates have always been a problem. Federal and local police have put pressure on Syndicate operations to shut down, hence the neutral territories of the brothels, but our efforts are pretty wasted. The Syndicates are just about running this town, and so far, Pendragon's holds the most power. I can even regretfully say that the strongest mayoral candidate is backed by Uther, and he’s a clear shoo-in for the win.

“Just about every Syndicate-related crime is on the rise. Yesterday we were able to bust heroine being doled out from a charity truck. What’s worse is that Syndicate tensions are brewing and things are going to get worse. Tensions between rival Syndicates have risen before, and from what I understand, Balinor was fairly high up in Pendragon’s ranks. He stopped a lot of innocent people getting hurt.”

“Hurt from what?” It’s history from before he was born, something the older ladies on his street would talk about like a distant hallucination.

“Bombs, drive-bys, any way you can cut down on the rival’s ranks and win.”

“So you’re trying to stop that,” Merlin says skeptically, with the way Tristan talks, it doesn’t sound like he’s taking it very seriously.

“Honestly, I doubt I’d have much effect. But I know that if a war did begin, the Pendragon Syndicate will come out on top with Uther’s methods. Think about what happened to your mother. You two were targeted because she had a relationship with Balinor. That was in 1990.”

“I know,” he says icily, “I see what you’re getting at.” He doesn’t want Tristan talking about it. It’s his history, and it’s over and done with. Hunith Emrys is still dead.

“Sorry. But the point is that Uther has a lot a power, and he likes to show it off. A lot of people will get caught in the crossfire.”

“Why should I care?” He wonders why Tristan has this much faith that he’ll do the ‘right’ thing. “I’m Arthur Pendragon’s favourite whore. I lived on the streets, and I made it by myself. Half my clients were the middle-class citizens you’re trying to protect.”

“Because you’re not a Pendragon.”

“So? Arthur isn’t like that,” he defends instantly. They both see the mistake he’s made. The affection is much too obvious to ignore, but an understanding simply crosses Tristan’s face. Merlin’s beginning to see what Tristan’s trying to do: play on his sympathy, and the inherent ‘goodness’ in his heart. But Arthur has to come first, right?

“My girl, Isolde, she’s pregnant. I have a family to think about. And with Uther Pendragon pulling the string to the city I find myself a bit more invested than usual.”

Tristan has given him his own reasons which Merlin understands, and he supposes it puts them on equal footing. He’d protect his mom if given the chance again. But he needs more than that. 

“How about a deal?” Tristan leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Your family is obviously very important to you. If you help with any information you know, I can find out what happened to your mother.”

He looks at Tristan blankly, wondering if he’s heard correctly. “My mother’s dead.”

Tristan looks at him in surprise. “Dead? You thought she died in the attack? No. Your neighbors, who called the police, were able to keep her from bleeding out. According to the report, she survived.”

It’s becomes difficult to breathe. Thinking becomes an effort too.

“You really didn’t know.”

He wants to cry, but he’s not going to. “How is she?” He asks, only just remembering that Tristan didn’t have that info.

“I don’t know, but I can ask my handler and get him to find out for you.”

“If I give you information,” Merlin adds, seeing the nod from the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t like that his mother has become a bargaining chip. Of course it _would_ come back to Tristan trying to make him a deal. But Merlin feels no blame towards Tristan, because he understands Tristan’s stakes in the job. 

There’s the choice between Arthur and his mother, and two years ago he would have chosen his mother without much difficulty. Now he isn’t sure. Or he doesn’t want to be sure. The thought of betraying Arthur makes him physically ill. It’s an odd mixture of loyalty and love that’s slowly taken hold of him. He’s had years with the memory of his mother, and it hurts to think that he might see her again, stuck in the Avalon. But he can't just knock away the years he'd had with Arthur Pendragon. A completely conceited man, when he doesn’t go out of his way to ignore his father’s rules.

“I can’t help you.” He’s apologetic, not only to Tristan but to his mother.

“That’s okay.” Tristan is disappointed, but it doesn’t appear that he’s holding it against him.

“You’re stupid, you know, to expect that I won’t say anything to Arthur. Uther’s technically my boss after all.”

“So what, he’s mine too.” Tristan leans back, stretching his muscles. He stands up to leave, giving Merlin his final words. “I trust that you won’t say anything. You know what it’s like to have a death on your hands, and I think you’re a good kid who got dealt a shitty set of cards. You came to the Avalon for protection and I’m risking that.

“Expect me back again though. Your manager gave me a package deal, and I still have a few more appointments left. You don’t come cheap, even at a discount.”

“Maybe you should be spending it on the baby,” Merlin grouses, not mentioning that Cedric doesn’t give out package deals. This has Arthur’s hands all over it. So it means that Arthur does have an inkling of who Paul Dandry actually is. And if he knows Arthur, the Pendragon heir wouldn’t have stalled to kill Tristan without a reason.

It leaves a sour taste in Merlin's mouth. He knows who Tristan is now, and he knows about the man’s life, summed up in the total of what he takes as important. His job's causes, and his future wife. Somehow Arthur is going to know that Merlin’s made headway with ‘Paul Dandry’ and he’s going to ask. He may have internally scoffed at Tristan calling him a ‘good kid,’ because he’s committed murder. Except the fed’s right. Merlin knows the feel of death, inflicting it on others and having it tighten around him.

Can he let someone like Tristan Cornwall die?

The question won’t leave him. He has the choice to betray Arthur, or betray the trust that Tristan has willingly given. There’s the option of the keeping silent to both sides—a lesser betrayal, if there is such a thing. But from experience he knows it won’t matter to a Syndicate man’s pure black and white vision. You're either with or against them. 

Merlin wants more time to think and wishes there was a way to delay his scheduled appointment with Arthur and call in sick. If only Arthur were a regular client and not his boss and lover. Even if the former title is starting to take over their relationship, it’s impossible to completely see him that way. So it makes it harder to see Arthur smiling at him, and imagine it turning into a cold-hearted gaze that would freeze them both and shatter.

In his heart and what little conscience he has, he knows his answer. The other part of it only needs to reconcile with his decision. When Arthur walks through the door weeks later, he’s still trying to settle down with the choice. He knows instantly that Arthur sees his guilt, because he can’t look him in the eyes. 

It leaves his mouth dry, and he has to keep swallowing to prevent his throat from shriveling up. He’s scared. Not the sort where it’s fight or flight, and he’ll have to claw his way out--it’s fear tinged with disappointment, like it's the beginning of the end. Maybe it’s a good thing his mouth and throat are too parched, because it'll give him a reason why he can’t answer Arthur’s questions. 

Arthur walks past him, not to ignore him, but enacting a tactic he’s familiar with. He’s biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to break down Merlin’s walls. As Arthur stands mere inches in front of him, he holds out a series of files bound together in an plastic file folder. Merlin dutifully takes it, spreading the information out on the bed. 

This is how it usually is. Merlin cross-legged on the bed, perusing the files, or divulging all the secrets and information he’s attained. Arthur at the sofa, drinking and chewing on ice cubes, giving instructions or listening silently. Today’s going to be different.

It’s unnerving how patient Arthur is being. He likes to get right in the thick of things, amongst the action and chaos. Fighting the good fight. It makes Merlin so nervous that he even forgets to pour Arthur a drink. 

Arthur’s stays silent.

He tries to keep his focus on the words and pictures in front of him: a businessman possibly dipping into Pendragon finances, a drug handler sniffing his own product, Vivienne’s birthday and the people she interacted with that are of interest. It’s all laid out in neat bullet points. The information swirls through his brain without taking hold.

“What do you know Merlin?” 

Merlin jumps at Arthur’s intrusion, wondering if Arthur is secretly clairvoyant. Looking up he sees Arthur is checking his tie, wiping at a speck of dust.

As Merlin attempts to settle back from the fright, Arthur allows an increment of silence to pass before he asks, “Who?”

He could die over this. Even though he had denied being like his father to Arthur, he can’t know for sure. He'd never thought he could have pulled the trigger on a gun either. People have limits. Maybe Merlin’s refusal to protect a fed will set off a underlying ruthlessness? Like with what Uther had done to his wife’s best friend after his wife died. Or Merlin could be thinking much too highly of his relationship with Arthur. 

At the moment he has his ideas on what he means to Arthur, but his paranoia tells him they’re lies or exaggerations. Every misgiving he has about Arthur, he’ll rebut the very treacherous nature of the thoughts in an endless cycle. It’s difficult to concentrate on anything. The words in front of him become a mess of ink as he tries to avoid the silent interrogation at hand. He’s itching to move away from Arthur and his best solution is the bar. So with jaws clenched tight and his body taut with anxiety, he goes to pour a glass of alcohol for Arthur.

He’s so focus on pouring the drink Merlin doesn’t hear Arthur, until he’s sidled up close, one arm around to keep him in place. Arthur leans in to him, which is meant to be comforting, but it makes his heart pound in fear. Not getting a desired response, Arthur moves his head closer until Merlin has no choice but to turn face to face.

“No,” he meekly whispers, a belated refusal to answer Arthur’s question.

“Merlin,” the warmth of Arthur’s breath rest against his ear, the tone endlessly patient. “What do you know?”

He tries to move, but Arthur is keeping him physically locked in and unable to get out. “No,” he repeats, adding, “I’m sorry.”

Arthur’s head rests on his shoulders, and he wishes he could turn around and see his face so he might know what Arthur’s thinking.

“You want to know what I think?”

Merlin jerks, having an irrational thought that Arthur _is_ reading his mind, dislodging Arthur’s head from its resting place.

“I think there’s a possibility that Paul Dandry is an undercover cop,” Arthur continues, ignoring the dislodge. “There’s a reason why I didn’t tell you about him.”

“Why?” The secrecy Arthur has kept about Tristan has bothered him. Finally, he’ll get to know the reasons.

“I figured you’d react this way.”

“So it’s alright if I refuse to tell you anything.”

“No.” Arthur’s hold onto him tightens, and Merlin can't tell whether it’s the grasp of a python or the way a child holds onto their favourite toy.

“I’m going to be stubborn about this,” he warns. “He’s—“

“An undercover cop—,“ Arthur interjects.

“—innocent,” Merlin continues.

“Innocent? Undercover cops play by different rules than our regular Red-and-Blue. Innocent hardly applies.”

“So? He’s not burning people alive, or—” Merlin’s cut short when Arthur harshly spins him around, confronting him with eyes that gleam maliciously.

“He told you about my mother?”

His voice is so low Merlin can barely hear him, but the grip on his arms gives a clear message. Arthur doesn’t seem to be completely present, instead lost in his head and feeding off the pain of his emotions.

“Tauren, actually.” Merlin’s slightly scared, as if he's looking into the maw of a great beast. Yet, he’s confident that he can move out of the way before it snaps its jaws. “He told me about her friend.”

Arthur nods absentmindedly, reliving the story on his own. “My father has a vindictive streak.”

“Does burning someone alive count as vindictive?” He doesn’t mean to be sarcastic, but hearing Arthur defend his father, despite knowing such a horrible story about his mother’s friend, riles him.

“Things are handled differently in the Syndicate world. Power equals guns and money. My father’s very good at wielding both.”

“What about you?”

It’s a while before Arthur says anything. “This is why I didn’t want you to know.” Merlin can hear the pain and frustration. “There’s a reason why I didn’t tell you about him,” Arthur repeats, defending his choice to keep him in the dark.

“I don’t like it…but I understand why.” And he does. The thought of being in the same room as an undercover fed would have made Merlin too nervous, and he’d have given himself away. The second reason is exactly what Arthur's not saying: that Merlin wouldn’t be able to follow through. He’s not as innocent as everyone seems to think, but he can only guess that some remaining bits of decency are still inside him. 

“At least tell me his name.”

“You could do a lot with a name.”

“Merlin,” Arthur implores more strongly, crushing his arms in desperation.

He shakes his head, thinking about Tristan, Isolde, and the family they'll make together. Then he thinks about being deprived of his own mother and father. Merlin doesn’t want the kid going through the same thing. He doesn’t want Arthur to murder an undercover fed—and if Uther finds out, the pregnant fiancée as well. 

“He has a family,” Merlin states.

“And I don’t?” Arthur says, speaking about his father.

“I can’t break that apart. You know what happened to mine.”

“Yours isn’t completely broken.” 

Merlin looks at Arthur curiously, unable to see where this is heading.

“You told me about them, your mother and father. What would you say if your mother wasn’t dead?”

What is Arthur saying? He leans on the bar for support. “I already know she didn’t die,” he admits. The one and only thing he can think is that Arthur had known his mother wasn’t dead. “Did you know? When you found out your father made the hit, did you know it failed?”

“I wasn’t sure what I could tell you.”

“You could have told me my mother is still alive!” Merlin shouts.

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

Merlin fights Arthur’s hold. “Tell me,” he implores, pawing at him, placing kisses where he can, to entice him. He isn’t aware he’s falling on old tactics, too desperate and almost out of his mind with the need to know.

Arthur’s hesitates, taking each kiss without much consideration. “I know where she is,” he reveals slowly.

Merlin is gasping for air. “Where?”

“I can’t tell you.”

His fingers dig into his lover’s shoulders as if he can rip them out. Is Arthur bargaining with him for the information? Like Tristan had done? The fed he can forgive, but Arthur doesn’t have the right. Merlin can’t form the words against the swell of betrayal.

“I’m sorry.” 

Merlin ignores the apology, and moves to get as much distance between him and Arthur as possible. 

“I’m not trying to keep her from you,” Arthur struggles to say, “I just…” It’s the first time he’s seen Arthur lose his composure, stumbling with his speech. “I just need a name.”

“No,” he growls, “you can’t use my mother as a bargaining chip, you fucking tosser.”

“Bargaining chip?”

Merlin doesn’t hear him, and spits in Arthur’s face to keep him from saying anything else. He’d done it to a girl once, who’d been trying to poach a john vying for his custom, and finds it rather grotesque. He’d only done it once, and Arthur had just pissed him off enough to make it twice.

The gob of saliva is ferociously wiped off as Arthur seethes. “I’m not bargaining for anything!”

“Aren’t you?” Merlin gets up into Arthur’s face, ready to physically confront a man more honed at fighting than he’s ever been. 

“Merlin,” Arthur warns.

He pushes against Arthur’s chest, and Arthur pushes back. Not expecting the sudden force, Merlin loses balance and topples over. Yet he’s back up quickly, charging with a shoulder straight into Arthur’s gut, knocking them back against the wet bar. Alcohol bottles tip and shatter, rolling off the surface. Neither heed the mess as Merlin takes a knee to the stomach, winding him, and causing him to collapse to the ground from the pain. With quick action, Merlin grabs Arthur’s legs and overbalances him, also knocking him to the ground. They quickly lunge at each other, rolling across the ground, until Arthur is finally able to grab hold of Merlin by the front of his shirt and toss him face down onto the bed. 

There’s no chance to get back up as Arthur’s weight sits on top of him, and he hisses into Merlin’s ear, “Stop this.” 

With a turn of his head, Merlin snaps his teeth at Arthur, forcing him to back off a little, barely grazing his nose. There's just enough space to prop up his hands, giving him the stability to use his whole body to force Arthur off. 

The Syndicate heir stumbles back, crashing against the closet door. “Dammit Merlin, stop and listen to me.”

“Why?” Merlin’s ready to lunge again, but stills on the bed patiently, expecting an answer.

Arthur’s using the wall to find his feet, keeping his head turned away. The avoidance riles him even more, but he resists jumping at Arthur again.

“You can’t even trust me,” he spits.

Arthur shakes his head, desperate for Merlin to listen. “It’s not about trust.”

“Then what? Why haven’t you said anything to me about an undercover fed. How come I have to find out from him? If you’re not using my mother to bargain with me, then why can’t you tell me.”

“A fed?” Arthur catches, before reverting his attention back to Merlin, still struggling to form the right words. “I need time.”

“I’m not doing anything just so you can impress your father.” Merlin knows he’s being spiteful on purpose, wanting to injure as much as he feels he’s been deceived.

“I’m not trying to impress anyone.” Arthur pulls at his hair in frustration. His walk towards Merlin is almost a crawl, back hunched, legs moving like jelly. When Arthur is on his knees at his feet, his hands are on him begging for acceptance. “Please, Merlin. It’s important that you do this for me.” Arthur presses their foreheads together, begging over and over, “Please.”

Merlin’s never seen Arthur beg, hadn’t even been aware that it was possible. There’s something broken that he may have put there, but that’s not what makes him give in. “Tristan Cornwall,” he croaks, hesitantly reaching out to Arthur’s mussed hair, smoothing it down back to its original state. “You'd better not be tricking me. I won’t forgive you.”

Arthur quickly takes his hand to press a kiss to it. “There’s no need.”

What Merlin doesn’t say is that the first chance he gets he’s going to tell the fed that his cover's been blown. They don’t say anything else for the rest of the appointment, instead spending the time staying close like this, something that Merlin's missed. He reacquaints himself with Arthur, wants the aroma of his shampoo and cologne to imprint onto him, because this time he’s not going to waver. He won’t question betrayal and loyalties if the fault of Tristan’s life being wiped away ends up resting upon him. Merlin can only do so much for Arthur.

Hopefully, three weeks won't be too late to warn him. 

 

He paces anxiously, biting his nails. It's a bad habit he’s avoided until now, having too much time on his hands. If it isn’t too late, Tristan will leave the second Merlin tells him, and he’ll take his family into hiding. 

The familiar click of the lock has him turning around, ready for the words to fly once the door is safely closed. But when Arthur walks through the door everything stalls. He can’t comprehend who’s in front of him, thinking he must have got the time and date wrong. Merlin knows he didn’t though, and looks at the clock. It’s five minutes before his appointment with Tristan and Arthur is standing _here_ with him. There’s a gut-wrenching feeling that he’s already too late.

Arthur doesn’t waste time with him. He’s got another folder in his hand, a manila envelope with a flimsy red string keeping the contents unknown. It’s tossed onto the bed without much care and Arthur gives him a distinctive look. Merlin doesn’t know what it means, but he has an idea.

Taking the dive, Merlin cautiously picks up the envelope, which is surprisingly heavy and thick. It feels as though there’s a whole stack of papers inside, and his curiosity gets the better of him to check it out. 

None of the files make sense to him. They're bank account statements and invoices for coffee beans and furniture. He tries to make heads or tails of why he needs to know this, until he sees a tax receipt for a considerable donation to a political campaign, made to Uther Pendragon. Merlin realizes this folder isn’t for him. 

He’s not sure he can take another shock tonight, but fate has other things in store as the lock to his room clicks open a second time, causing his heart to jump up in his throat. Arthur had undoubtedly planned for this occurrence: a stand-off between the Syndicate heir and an undercover fed.

‘What happens now?’ Merlin wonders.

Tristan instantly recognizes Arthur as one of the main people of interest in his investigation. Merlin sees he’s itching for a gun and a way out, but realizes he’s locked in, with the only exit strategy to turn his back on the devil and open the door. There’s no fear though; Tristan only glowers, an invitation for trouble. Merlin thinks it’s no wonder they chose him to work undercover.

“Merlin,” Arthur says as his goodbye, before heading towards the door.

As Merlin watches in anticipation, he’s sure they’re going to come to blows, opposite sides of the law pushing each other into a cataclysmic explosion. Tristan is defenseless, but Merlin knows there is nothing left for him to do now. If Arthur pulls out his gun, Tristan will come at him with a screaming battle cry, Merlin’s sure of it. Neither takes their eyes off the other as Arthur unlocks the door, and Tristan shifts only enough to let him by.

Even though Merlin had thought that Arthur wouldn't commit another murder right here in front of him, the great relief of an averted disaster still overcomes him once the door closes with Arthur on the other side.

“What the hell was that?” Tristan accuses.

Underneath the anger, Merlin can see the flurry of dread fueling Tristan's every pointed accusation and shout as he worries about Isolde. He ignores it to get straight to the point. “I told him your name.”

Tristan stalks towards him, spitting out his misjudgement of Merlin and how he should kill him. Fed or no fed, he might actually murder him, yet Merlin doesn’t feel any worry. The heavy manila envelope in his hand is a weight of confidence, and he finds himself eerily calm and detached as he holds it up to Tristan.

“How much do you get paid? I thought the brothels were neutral.”

“It’s for you.”

“What is it?” Tristan sneers, making no move to take the envelope from his hands.

“I guess you can think of it as a present.”

“From Arthur Pendragon? I don’t take bribes. And I don’t do favours for spoilt Syndicate brats.”

“I don’t think you’ll be doing him a favour.” Merlin shakes the package at him. “Open it.”

The envelope is snatched from his hands. At first one distrustful eye is kept upon him as the flap is ripped open without much care. As Tristan flips through the contents, his focus steers towards the papers in his hands. Eyes widen with each increasingly careful turn of paper, and Tristan’s probably not aware the way his mouth his slightly agape from his delighted astonishment.

“This is…” Tristan can’t finish the sentence, overcome with disbelief, finding this almost too surreal to be real.

Merlin shrugs. “I don’t know, but I think I get what it’s supposed to be.”

“What’s your boyfriend want for this?” The slight suspicion is a defense against the situation at hand. If it were a deal, Arthur would have made it himself.

Merlin shrugs. “I don’t know why he’s doing this, but I think you should take it and leave. If you don’t, leave anyway.”

Tristan cocks his head at Merlin’s dispassionate attitude, the odd behaviour putting him on guard.

“You should know Tristan, the Avalon doesn’t give out package deals,” Merlin reveals, assuming that the fed will understand what he’s trying to say.

And Tristan does get it, from his face of shock. It's quickly squashed by a snort, the care-free smirk reclaiming its place. “Seems I’ve been played.”

“It still works in your favour. Much more than it does for him.”

“I thought you didn’t know what he was doing.”

“I can make an educated guess.”

“You love him?”

The question is unexpected and slightly unwelcome, considering Tristan’s occupation. Merlin answers nonetheless with another shrug of his shoulders. “Yeah.” 

He thinks the feelings may be mutual between him and Arthur. The Pendragon Syndicate is imploding on itself, and Arthur had designed and set the charge. Merlin had never asked for anything from Arthur, especially this, and he can't fathom why the Pendragon heir is doing this.

“I’ll be leaving.”

“You won’t tell anyone that Arthur…”

Tristan gives a derisive snort. “I know how this world works—and how Uther works. If I didn’t, then I’d have something to worry about. I don’t plan on testing how much Arthur Pendragon can be like his father.”

Merlin neither agrees nor disagrees with Tristan’s statement. He only knows what's going to happen next, and isn’t surprised to find Arthur sitting at the end of his bed the morning after.

His body is crunched down on itself, head resting in his hands, as elbows rest on his knees. His whole body jitters with every bounce of his foot. It resembles a prayer, looking almost so delicate that it will break apart with a touch.

Merlin slips out from the blankets, feeling the shock of cold air touching his bare skin. After his last session the day before he hadn’t bothered to put clothes on after his shower, and went straight to bed with its fresh linens. He takes no notice of his slightly damp pillow, wet from his hair, when he listens to Arthur’s forced steady breathing.

There’s nothing in his experience that he can equate to what Arthur is going through, so he does the only thing he can and drapes himself across Arthur’s back in a comforting gesture, wrapping arms across the expanse of his lover’s shoulders.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says to fill the silence, not knowing if the words hold any actual truth. 

Arthur doesn’t seem to be listening anyway, sinking into the gloom of his own treachery. The best Merlin can do is take Arthur’s mind off it for a little while, placing kisses behind his ears and on his neck, massaging into the stiff muscles beneath his shoulders. Gently he pulls at Arthur and instructs him to lie back, and Arthur easily complies.

Sitting astride Arthur puts Merlin back in his natural element, as he circles his fingertips into the skin beneath him, feeling the give of muscles. He’s appreciating the contours of their shapes, the dips and rises of Arthur’s physical strength. Eventually, Arthur closes his eyes to better sink into Merlin’s ministrations, of hands rubbing the pectorals and lightly tugging at the hairs on his chest. Merlin leans down to kiss Arthur’s lips, a soft pressure with the barest skimming of tongue. 

He presses their crotches together, feeling Arthur's lack of interest, which doesn’t match his own. He presses forward with his mouth and body, trying to get Arthur to reach the point where he doesn’t have to move like he’s trying. Finding that his tactics aren’t working, he works his hand at the zipper of Athur’s trousers, hoping the bare touch of skin will do the trick. Arthur's cheek twitches at the first touch, and Merlin doesn’t waste time to wrap his hand around the limp girth and slowly pump the filling arousal in his fist.

The right signs are there, with Arthur’s chest rising and falling with long, deep breaths, as his member reaches its maximum width, becoming unbearably hot in Merlin's hands. Arthur grunts, making Merlin smile as he twists his wrist in the same way, finally seeing the sorrow begin to lift off his lover’s shoulders. So it takes him by surprise when Arthur surges up and pries Merlin’s hands off of him, telling him to stop. Confused, Merlin barely understands the command, and Arthur has to hold him away, lightly pushing Merlin off his lap, repeating, “Stop, I can’t right now.” Arthur rubs his face, the creases of his frown back to its deep furrow.

“You didn’t have to go against your father—” Merlin tries to say, believing that to be the thoughts haunting Arthur’s conscious.

“This isn’t about my father.” Merlin is perplexed as Arthur gathers the courage to reach into the inner pockets of his jacket, and pulls out a folded piece of paper, which he unfolds and reads to himself. “I’m sorry,” he says, a profound regret drowning him.

Looking at the paper, Merlin tries understand what he’s looking at, or at least recognize the handwriting on the crinkled lined sheet. There are ink smudges where the handwritten words must have passed over what was previously written there. As Merlin reads each sentence, he slowly realizes the identity of the letter’s writer, and it's confirmed when he reaches the end, reading the salutations and the name underneath.

Strangely, he’s not crying as he always thought he would have been. Instead, a wistful sense of happiness fills him. That he can at least have this, even if things are very different than the way he would have wanted them to be. 

“How was she?” he finds the courage to ask.

“I found her in a women’s shelter. Your mother was sick.”

“With what?”

“I thought it was simply a cold at first, but I learnt later that she had contracted HIV.” 

Arthur looks at him meaningfully and Merlin completely understands. Even Cedric won’t take a bribe from a client who wants to get their jollies off barebacking; it’s too much risk for everyone. The illness is a horror story that’s always a possibility, and he feels absolutely stricken to hear that his mother's endured that. 

“When?”

“About five years back.”

That would have placed Merlin at about seventeen, in the second year of work since his debut after the Avalon’s training.

Arthur continues talking as Merlin sorts out the timeline in his head. “I got her to a hospital as soon as I could convince her.” 

“Did she even trust you?”

“No,” Arthur laughs. “She tried to punch me. Did she teach you that?”

Merlin chortles, “I don’t know.” But he likes the thought. Soon the lightness from the joke disappears, and he has to ask, “How was she at the end?”

“I tried to make her as comfortable as I could. I kept her safe, put her under a fake name in the hospital in case my father found out. I’m sorry I couldn’t find a way to get you two together sooner.”

“There was no way you could have brought her here, or took me to her.”

“But I could have done something sooner, given the information sooner.”

And by 'the information', Arthur meant what he’d given to Tristan. If anything, Arthur had gone beyond what he'd needed to do. “You can’t control everything Arthur.”

“She only died three days ago.” 

It’s a shock to learn she'd died so recently, and makes him wonder what their reunion would have been like if Arthur _had_ done something sooner. Yet there’s nothing to say on how much time it will take for Tristan to put his case together, so the fantasy is almost a null question. 

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” Arthur stresses. He looks guilt stricken with another mark on his soul, from turning his back on the Pendragon name to failing him.

And he’s not sure how he can alleviate Arthur’s burden, but at the moment he should at least cast off his own doubts. “Did she die happy?”

“People don’t die happy, Merlin.” Arthur scoffs.

Merlin can see the death of men in Arthur’s eyes, taking each kills with their achievement and failures to heart. “Then, did she have any regrets?”

Arthur shakes his head, wrinkles of confusion etching his face. “She left peacefully.” He turns to Merlin and ask, “I honestly don’t understand how she could.”

“Did she know about us?”

“I think she guessed it.”

“Then she knew I wouldn’t be alone.” Merlin is making his own guesses. He can’t possibly know what Arthur had told his mother, or what his mother would have thought about their relationship. The answer only comes from some indescribable part of him. Simply put, that’s just the way he feels.

“What about Balinor?” Rationally, if Arthur had found his mother, he’d been looking for Balinor as well.

“He’s harder to find. But when things do go down, I can promise you that Gaius will be fine.”

“I never told you about Gaius,” he says in surprise.

“I wanted to know how you'd gotten here,” Arthur states. “I was surprised to see it was Gaius who recommended you. He’s been the family chauffeur even before I was born, and I'd never saw him as the type to be interested in brothels. That’s before I found out Balinor was a family friend to Gaius.”

“Did Gaius know that my mother was still alive?” He thinks of the pendant hidden in his sock drawer, and how Gaius had come to acquire it.

“They talked for a short bit, a chance meeting when Gaius was waiting in the car for the end of a meeting. He saw her walking across the street and ran after her. Eventually, your mother ran off again.”

“Because of your father?” Merlin asks. 

“Yeah, my father.”

“How did Gaius have the pendant then?”

“Hunith had asked if Gaius could help look for you. Since she had to hide, I think she left it to him. I don’t know if it was intentional or something she forgot to quickly get away, but Gaius took it and thought to give it to you if he ever found you. Apparently it was a gift from Balinor.” 

A swell of joy fills his heart to hear that his mother never stopped looking for him, and it compels him to kiss Arthur, as a thank you. Arthur accepts the light kiss, though he doesn’t put much effort into reciprocating, too aware of the melancholy surrounding Merlin.

He pulls Arthur down with him, leaving peck after peck of small kisses on lips, cheeks, jaws, wherever Merlin can place fleeting intimacy. Eventually, his effort subsides to allow the somber to take hold, and he holds Arthur close.

“Thank you for not telling your father about Gaius. Or killing Tristan, though you probably planned that.”

“You don’t have to thank me Merlin.” Arthur sounds less than pleased, and he winces. 

“Tell me,” Merlin encourages, watching Arthur struggle to form the words. 

“You’re not the only one that needed a change of pace. I did everything my father asked of me, and as long as I made him proud—it was enough.” Arthur chortles. “In the end I’m betraying him and the entire Syndicate.”

“Why?” Merlin hopes Arthur hadn’t done it because of him.

“I want to blame you.” Arthur turns on his side, his eyes running over his features, as a pad of his thumb runs over his bottom lip. “I really want to.”

“Then why?” Merlin waits for an answer, watching Arthur attempt to figure out a coherent reason with difficulty. So he says, “You wanna know something Tauren told me long ago?”

“No, but you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“He told me that you were the one to watch out for. That one day, you were going to surpass you father for your own gain.” He smooth’s out the distraught from Arthur’s face. “But I don’t think you did it for the reasons Tauren thought.”

“Enlighten me, Merlin.”

“You were like me, following the routine we allowed ourselves to get trapped in. You had to grow up some time, Arthur.”

Arthur snorts, the edge of a smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.

And with Arthur back in an accessible mood, he has a question to ask. “Why did you need to know Tristan’s name? You could have just walked into the room and handed him the stuff.”

“I told you, I’m thorough. I had an idea that Paul Dandry wasn’t who he said he was, and I was hoping you would learn something. I needed to know who’s payroll he was on. I couldn’t take the chance of another Syndicate getting the information. It had to be a clean cop. Of course, he turned out to be a federal agent.”

Merlin temporarily wonders if Uther will hunt his son down. Even with that prospect, Merlin can see that Arthur Pendragon has already won against his father.

They stay together quietly until Merlin has to push Arthur out and prepare for the day. Everything moves along like it’s completely normal, as though this brothel won't be destroyed. He doesn’t know when it will happen; Arthur hadn't said, or maybe he doesn’t know. For some reason he thinks it’ll happen today, but Merlin laughs at himself, remembering the weight of the package he'd handed over yesterday night. 

Nevertheless, the walls of his residence is crumbling before his eyes.

 

For the next month everything feels redundant. He’s prying for information that may not matter from people who are… That’s the reason for his discontent. He does his job but keeps seeing the larger person: the name behind the face, their position at work. It clashes with the objectives of his tasks. 

Merlin smiles sweetly at everyone, nodding his head to appease them, and thinks about his clients’ partners and children. He listens to Vivian chatter and wonder if there’s ever a moment the things she tells him could place a target in the middle of her forehead. As annoying as she is, she isn’t like them: pushers, gun-toting fiends, and people with wealth amassed via scrupulous means. 

He’ll stand by Arthur, but spying for him no longer holds the same appeal. It doesn’t have the same air of freedom the more he thinks about Tauren, Tristan, and every other person he’s gathered information on. 

There are people that belong in the underworld, and those that stumble in. He wonders where he fits. 

Tomorrow will be five years since the day Arthur strolled in, upending him and the routines he'd been used to, filling him with the realization of discontent and murder, and the amicable knowledge that he could kill someone if he wanted to, even orchestrate it. At least, he thinks he could. Not everyone is fair game in his eyes. 

Merlin isn’t that cold, and he doesn’t want to be.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Merlin says to himself, finished with a day of spying, and stares at his ceiling rather than washing and cleaning his room. He repeats it for tomorrow, always questioning the value of his clients’ lives and how much it matters. 

“You don’t want to work for me?” Arthur asks, as though he’s seen this coming a mile away. He’s sitting on his sofa, having slipped in after the last client had departed. “Even if you weren’t working for me, could you continue seeing the same clients?”

Merlin shakes his head, believing Arthur to be a mind reader.

“I can’t tell clients that you suddenly don’t want to see them anymore.”

“Then get Cedric to do it.”

Arthur snorts. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You could make me exclusive to you.”

This garners genuine surprise from Arthur as he tries to discern if Merlin’s sanity is intact.

“Is that what you want?” he asks, pushing for a solid affirmation. “I only asked that before because I wanted to keep you safe.”

And as Merlin had stated to Arthur many times, he doesn’t want his protection. But now he’s going against his own words. “Then do it, because I asked you to. ”

“Why are you asking?” Arthur makes sure they’re eye to eye, watching for any faltering from Merlin.

“Because I want it.” He does. “Do you consider that running away?” Merlin asks, expecting Arthur to understand what he’s actually asking.

The bed dips when Arthur sits down, uncaring of the sweaty sheets to run a hand through Merlin’s hair. “You do what you want.”

He stays silent, attempting to work out a puzzle until he comes to a halt with one conclusion. Merlin likes that answer. “Say yes,” he commands Arthur, a wide grin on his face.

Arthur chuckles. “Yes.”

  
 **  
 ******

****EPILOGUE****

 ** **** **

The jostling and rocking stirs him to consciousness, lacking the warmth from his cocoon of blankets, though it feels as if a suit jacket has been wrapped around him instead, barely covering his lower regions. Beneath the jacket he’s naked, not having bothered with clothing the night before. 

Sudden brightness wakes him fully, the light almost searing past his closed eyelids. He barely registers the new warmth, pressing his face into the chest of the person carrying him. The smell is familiar and so is the laboured breathing. Arthur had been over the night before, so why is he back?

Squinting his eyes open, he barely makes out his lover's features. “Arthur?” Merlin rasps.

When his eyes are half-way open, his eyes train onto the wheat gold strands of Arthur’s hair, and his first thoughts is that he was right, the Avalon’s fluorescent lights don’t do it justice.

“Sir!” a voice Merlin recognizes calls. The heat of embarrassment flushes his face, seeing Gaius calling to them from beside a limousine, viewing his obvious lack of attire. As Gaius moves to open the door for them, he smiles kindly, giving Merlin a weird sense of deja-vu from the time when Gaius had first brought him here. The absurd thought that this is the same limousine comes to mind, before he readily dispels the notion.

He’s gently placed onto the seats before Arthur clambers inside with him. 

“What’s going on?” he asks, still slightly tired, but more aware as he placidly watches Arthur fix the jacket more securely around his shoulders.

“I can no longer stay in the city.”

Limousine pitches forward, and the force of the sudden movement gives Merlin the sudden epiphany that he’s _outside_ the Avalon.

“It seems the authorities have enough to convict my father.” Arthur continues, looking out the tinted windows.

He’s almost afraid to do the same, only to eventually give in. It’s been a really long time and he doesn’t recognize anything, expect for the few food stalls and stores that stayed in business the past years. At some point, he had forgotten that Arthur had ever given Tristan the information that jeopardized his own criminal inheritance a year ago. 

Now, finally, the castle has fallen.

“And you?” he asks, wanting to know how much danger Arthur has put himself in.

“Nothing.” Arthur smiles, almost smugly, and continues on nonchalantly, “At least nothing yet. Who knows what they’ll dig up.”

Merlin doesn’t comment, unsure whether Arthur is hiding his pain, or if the Syndicate heir has something in the works. “So you’re going into hiding.” Arthur’s fiddling with the buttons on the jacket Merlin’s wearing. “And, you’re taking me with you?”

The jacket is brought tighter around him, before Arthur drags a thumb across his cheekbones. “Don’t be an idiot, Merlin.” 

He moves with instinct, drifting into Arthur’s arms to place a strong, closed-mouthed kiss to Arthur’s lips. When he pulls back he can feel giddiness bubbling up, his smile bright and carefree. Arthur gives him a friendly smirk, and Merlin would roll his eyes if Arthur wasn’t pulling him in for another, deeper, kiss. 

 

He looks out at the view, never tiring of the sight of trees, snow, and rocky slopes, or the smell of clean fresh air. They had ridden in an airplane to this mountain hideaway, and he uses every moment to stare out the window in wonder. He had never been outside of the city before, nor flown thousands of feet in the air, and enjoyed the sight of the buildings he knew turning into miniature toys, like an old child pastime for which he holds neither nostalgia nor hate. The plane flew through clouds, just swirls of mist that had always looked tangible from the ground.

Arthur had sat beside him, looking on, amused, watching a first time flyer fear the new feeling of his ears popping and the tremble of the plane, and the equal child-like excitement. Eventually he was able to pry Merlin from the window when it became too dark to see, and celebrate their escape. Merlin had kissed him over and over, nuzzled his nose to Arthur’s, and laughed at the couple-like quality of it.

Even four days sitting beside this window, it’s difficult to comprehend that he is no longer in the Avalon. Every morning he has the desire to change the sheets and put on a suit. Arthur had needed to find someone to bring him clothing that fit, other than the few pieces of Arthur's clothing kept at this place that he could wear. 

That morning Arthur had gone away, saying that he had a surprise. Merlin busies himself with a book from the library, with a dictionary at his side so he can find out what some of the words are supposed to mean, even if he still doesn’t know how to say them. 

About halfway through the book, he notices that it’s lightly snowing outside. There’s a small black object in the distance moving up the mountain towards the house. Merlin watches as the car approaches along the private roadway, wondering how many of these places Arthur has around the world. He'd mentioned taking him to an island, and at the time Merlin hadn’t even been able to fathom the airplane, let alone an island.

As the car gets nearer, Merlin can make out a figure in the passenger seat with Arthur, and wonders whether he should make himself scarce if Arthur’s conducting business. Even though the Pendragon Syndicate's gone now, Arthur’s going to resurrect it when the time is right.

The snow makes it difficult to see the man stepping out of the car, and Merlin slips away from the window, because he doesn’t trust that they won’t be able to see him. He waits silently in the middle of the room, listening to the door open and shut.

“Merlin,” Arthur calls, moments later.

He doesn’t call back, waiting for the password like Arthur instructed him to.

“Merlin, you cooking in the kitchen?”

One day, he’d like to know why Arthur chose that as the signal that everything is safe. Maybe his lover is being intentionally cruel over the story that Merlin had cooked a rat once to eat. He’s tempted to do it again and slip it in Arthur’s food one day. He’s been getting the housekeeper to teach him how to cook—he’ll simply put it in when she’s not looking. Maybe if any of Arthur’s men, who were all told to go underground when the Syndicate was busted, find their way here, Gwen will be part of the group. He wants her in on the joke.

“I’m upstairs,” Merlin calls back, peeking his head out the door. Arthur’s looking at him a bit anxiously. “Is everything alright?”

“How was your day?”

“Good. You’re looking nervous,” he points out.

“Yeah,” Arthur lays a comforting hand onto one of his shoulders, “I don’t want you to be nervous.”

“ _You’re_ the one who’s nervous.”

“I have someone who wants to meet you,” Arthur says to him cautiously, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s okay to be nervous.”

Realization dawns upon Merlin as he thinks about the figure in the car. He looks behind Arthur, despite knowing that he would have left the man in the parlour room downstairs.

“He’s downstairs?” Merlin asks.

“I’ll take you there if you want.”

“I can go by myself,” he says.

“If you want.”

Merlin nods, eyes on the stairs. In no time he’s in front of the parlour room doors with no memories of the trip down, only feeling anxious excitement as he opens the door and walks in.

The man in front of Merlin looks worn, the hair on his head and beard both beginning to grey. The clothes he’s wearing look brand new, and Merlin’s got an inkling that Arthur had bought it for him before they arrived here. 

Neither of them are aware what they should do, and Merlin does his best to keep himself from shifting foot to foot, while across from him, the man works up the courage to speak.

“My name’s Balinor.”

“I know,” Merlin quickly replies, with quiet excitement.

“You’ll have the whole day to talk,” Arthur interrupts, from the parlour entrance.

“Thank you,” Balinor says politely enough, the trickle of distrust evident.

Merlin could only assume it to be due to Arthur’s last name. His lover closes the door, before Merlin has a chance to acknowledge his own gratitude.

But his father is standing in front of him, and he finally has the chance to learn so much more about him and his mother. With the Avalon thousands of miles away, Merlin is free to show Arthur his thanks anytime he wishes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank You and Author Note Post found [here](http://inane-rational.livejournal.com/16784.html#cutid1)
> 
> Update (12/03/2013): [kingdomcome](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kingdomcome/pseuds/kingdomcome) has created a cover art for the story, which can be found [here at AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/947782)


End file.
